When it's Over
by KCartz
Summary: Angelina has been running for three years. Running from George, her grief, and her obligations. She's returned to Diagon Alley to have her broom fixed, but there are people she must see, things she must make right before she can go on with her life. This is the story of Angelina and George's adventures, guilt, and forgiveness after the battle of Hogwarts.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

It had been nearly three years since Angelina had been in Diagon Alley. Yet there she stood, transfixed, a still and lone figure standing on the cobbled street just beyond the entranceway behind the Leaky Cauldron. A hurried, indistinct crowd jostled around, oblivious to the still and silent girl in the alleyway.

Finally willing herself to look around she drank in the scene around her. It looked almost as it had when she was a young girl, growing up in her parents small but colourful flat above their tea shop. The air was cool and comfortable, sun warmed her back and the endless array of magical people and creatures moved around her, fast with excitement and anticipation, instead of fear. But something about the place was different; something was odd about the scenery. Upon a closer look, almost everything showed signs, scars really, of the bad times. Florean Fortescue's ice cream parlor was still dark, its lifeless windows were still covered by hundreds of fading, feebly flickering "Undesirable Number One" leaflets. Gringotts, once a magnificent marble structure she so admired was still pathetically crumbling, it's very standing looked severely and sickly comically compromised. And every once and awhile a child could be seen holding the hands of his grandparents, instead of his mum and dad, or a single person walking alone, still looking like their other half was missing. Their solemn faces among the many so determinately happy ones told the story of the war that had been fought and lived here.

Yes, things were different.

Finally she turned to the left and walked slowly and silently down the cobbled road, eyes fixed upon the ground, concentrating on stepping perfectly within the lines of the larger rocks, careful not to touch the cracks. She had been avoiding this place, frankly anywhere familiar to her since the months full of funerals and memorial services following the Battle of Hogwarts. Each pang of familiarity she felt when she recognized a shop or a bump in the road brought her back to the Great Hall.

Running, shivering but drenched in sweat among the upturned tables and benches, taking in the death around her with a cold, informational calculation. The harsh, immensely powerful voice of instruction that seemed to come from within her whole being. Fred, calling across the common room to her, asking her to the Yule Ball, and the warmth she felt in her cheeks when she said yes. The feeling of thanks that he couldn't see her blush because of her dark complexion. Collin Creevy flashed into the front of her mind next. His joyful, innocent eagerness as he asked for her autograph after she had made Quidditch Captain. Then, his frozen blank state as he lay over Neville's shoulders, dead. She shuddered. She did the best to force the faces of his terrified and broken muggle parents, weeping, clutching on to the- for the first time since she had met him- silent Dennis. They didn't understand why their child had died. The cruel war that had taken their son was a concept they could scarcely understand. At least the other mothers, like Mrs. Tonks and Mrs. Weasley could have some reasoning, some temporary comfort that their children had died for a great cause. But after the adrenaline of the victory subsided, they were left with the same gaping hole in their lives that Mr. and Mrs. Creevy were faced with.

Oh Mrs. Weasley. Never before had she seen a person suffering more. Angelina tried her best to understand, to sympathize and feel with her, but she could not. No mother should need to bury their child. She suffered greatly in her grief; condemned to a feeling of utter failure at the one job she had dedicated her life to, being a mother. Angelina nearly had to leave the funeral, looking into the gray, hallow suffering face was a punishment she could scarcely bear.

Angelina remembered the funeral, against her own will, she saw again Mr. Weasley. He was expressionless other than the silent tears threatening to leave his eyes, and the faintest hint of a smile; perhaps he was remembering one of his son's infamous pranks. He was clutching his inconsolable wife by her shoulders.

Fred would've hated it, she couldn't help but think. All the sadness when they should be out celebrating their victory. He would've especially hated that his final act on this earth was to cause so many people so much hurt and grief, when he had dedicated his life to making others laugh when no one else could. She tried to think of what he would've said, if he were there, but it had been so long that she couldn't. It would've been something inappropriately hilarious, she was sure. In her mind she went back to that day, as though searching a memory for some long lost clue.

Then there was George. His eyes were dry, though they had aged fifteen years in a month. He had lost himself. He looked like a man who had been split in half, as though his very soul had been ripped in two with no hope of reconciliation. He was a man beyond grief.

That was the funny thing about war. After the euphoria of the win was over, after the visions of a happier future left everyone's minds, they were left picking up the pieces. Then instead they were forced to imagine a future without those who had fallen, which normally wasn't happier at all.

There was something about great loss that changed how Angelina saw people. Both the dead and those left behind to mourn for them. The dead suddenly didn't seem like people anymore, but imprints left on the earth and on the people around them. Their bodies and minds were left to be interpreted by the memories and change they left behind in those who once loved them. Their piece of the story was over. That thought disturbed her a lot at night.

She watched the desperately grieving break from the façade of their personalities they normally showed. They gave everything to their emotions in a way that wasn't possible when a person was whole. She remembered her mother.

Screaming. Sobbing. Punching a pillow, forgetting magic, giving into raw emotion that plagued her. But magic did not forget her, as angry yellow sparks erupted from the impact of each blow. The ministry worker looked on, uncomfortable, wincing at each small fiery eruption. She remembered the look on his face when he saw her standing in the kitchen doorway, and they looked into each other's eyes. She could tell a lot from a person's eyes. Although dark, Fred's eyes were always light with mischievous joy. This man, however, had eyes that told the story of defeat and shame. He had been broken by witnessing the grief he was forced to deliver each day, telling the families of muggle-borns sentenced to life in Azkaban their loved ones' fate. His eyes were truly sorry. But he must have known that didn't make a difference, because he simply turned around and walked out of the flat without another word.

She stopped. She had counted the paces while staring at the ground. She was here. And there is was. Definitely larger, perhaps more violently purple than she had ever seen it. She didn't know what she had expected. Perhaps a boarded up shop like the ice cream parlor, or just a blank hole in a row of buildings. But there it stood, Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. There was one large difference, however; in the space below the floating sign, where there had once been a giant rabbit disappearing and reappearing under a top hat, there was now an enormous oval-framed photograph of two young teenagers, arms around each other's shoulders, laughing uproariously at some long forgotten joke.

She couldn't do this. She couldn't look into the living face of Fred. As much as she owed George a big hug and a rambling apology for losing touch of nearly three years, she couldn't do it. Frozen in her spot, she contemplated just visiting Quality Quidditch Supplies, seeing Madame Quiggly about her damaged firebolt, and taking the next portkey back to the Isle of Skye. She could leave here without any of her old friends, or her parents knowing she was ever here.

That would surely be the easiest way out. She could return to her life outside the war. The war, which at least, here at home, was still happening for her. Everything here held memories, both good and bad, but all were memories that belonged in the past, buried with those who did not get to leave that time, like she had.

She would have been perfectly happy never returning. But after a recent victory in Northern Ireland fans set off a series of dragon fireworks and fizzbangs (which Angelina recognized with a pang as Weasley products) one of which went rouge and badly singed the tail of her firebolt. Her coach spent two weeks berating her and banning her from practice, but until he finally showed up at her door, shaking a manky old flip-flop in one hand and her damaged broom in the other demanding she go see "the best repairwitch in Europe" or be banned from the team that she finally resigned to going home.

A clang interrupted her thought process and made her start. A chubby ginger boy of no more than 8 years old had just burst through the door of the joke shop, shrieking with glee. He was chased by a small girl, who was cackling evilly and shooting him with what she could only describe as miniature flobberworms out of a small metal tube. A harassed looking young witch followed soon after. She procured her wand and summoned a lasso around her children, whose faces fell as their heads banged together and the metal object fell to the ground with a deafening bang belonging to a much larger object. She watched as the trio trudged back inside.

Was she really this afraid of her old friends? If she could see herself now, four or so years ago, terrified to see George Weasley, of all people, what would she have thought of herself? The old Angelina, the Angelina unafraid to fight death eaters and risk her life for a radio show, she wouldn't believe what she was seeing now. A Gryffindor would not stand out here, not even to avoid looking into the face that brought her so much guilt that she could only rid her mind of it while whizzing around 50 feet in the air.

She followed the family nervously inside, picking up the silver tube on the way. Immediately an overwhelming crowd greeted her. The hum of excited voices, small explosions and shrieks of surprise filled her ears.

"Hello Mademoiselle is there anything I can help you find today?" asked a sultry woman's voice in a thick French accent. Fleur's younger sister, dressed in a tight skirted pink and white pinstriped uniform, had since grown into a stunningly beautiful young woman and she was looking up at her. Gabrielle didn't seem to recognize her; she only seemed to have noticed her look of bewilderment at the scene.

"No, no thank you," she replied, turning away and instead making her way down a small flight of stairs to slightly less crowded section of the store.

Another beautiful young girl in a pink pinstripe uniform with a sickly sweet voice greeted her at the entrance of this section as well. Again Angelina refused her help. He had to be here somewhere. But what if he weren't? What if he happened to be out, researching some new item, or at home with his family? Finally realizing she might now even see George today, she was suddenly disappointed, instead of relieved. Confused at this feeling, she now continued her search of the store, with a new sense to longing to see her old friend.

She ascended a big flight of stairs to a loft like area full of colorful miniature puffskiens, tricoloured lovebirds, and tiny rainbow hooting owls bouncing around in dozens of stacked and hanging cages. Temporarily distracted by the pure wonder of it all, she watched the strange creatures flutter in their cages and nearly walked into the back of another pink-pinstripe clad shop girl. She thought she recognized her from a year below her in Slytherin, but she couldn't get a good look at her face, as the girl was shouting up at the ceiling.

Angelina followed the yelling girl's gaze up to a mass hanging above her. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw a long, thin leg hanging from the side of a midnight blue hammock suspended magically above the shop.

"Fourteen barrels of 'Esscence of Ashwinder Eggs' were just delivered out back Mr. Weasley. Delivery boy says you owe him 20 galleons. Where should I tell him to leave them, sir?"

A heavy bored sigh came from within the deep hammock. The hanging leg kicked the air lazily as an exasperated voice rose from within.

"I told you about the love potion ingredients being sent by loading broom this morning, Beatrice. Here, give him 21 galleons and tell him to levitate them through the second window to the left on the fourth floor. _And I better get the sack I gave you last week for the deliveries back. _The powdered moonstone should be here soon too, so wait outside for it. Thank you Beatrice." A thin green-robed arm emerged from the depths of the hammock, holding a money pouch by the drawstring, which he dropped carelessly into the girl's hands. She only just caught it, said thank you nervously, and headed down the stairs with a suspicious glance at Angelina.

Angelina watched the hand retreat back into the hammock, only to emerge a moment later, wand in hand, to silently zap a drifting purple feather above him. Trying to think of what to say, she only managed a stammered, "Hi Georgie."

The hanging leg did not move, and for a moment she thought he must not have heard her, and she opened her mouth to speak again, just as a flamingly red head poked up from the side of the hammock. He arose so quickly that she jumped, and the silver tube she was still twirling nervously in her hands suddenly shot a shiny, mucus-ey mass straight into his face, hitting him squarely in the eye.

"Umph! Merlin's beard Ang!" righting himself to a sitting position, wiping the ball of slime from him face and flicking it to the ground, "I don't see you for years and you come back just to shoot me in the face with a Flobigater?!"

"Well I wasn't expecting you to look like Merlin himself!" she watched him clumsily jump from the hammock with a grunt, wiping at the sticky slime with his robe sleeve.

Finally getting his bearings George looked at her through shaggy hair covering his good eye. She was looking back at him, hands covering her mouth as she suppressed a grin, the Flobigater pointed up at the ceiling. A small giggle escaped her covered mouth, and George's face split into a grin. Suddenly they were laughing. Neither could remember the last time they really laughed. They just looked at each other, George, covered in purple and gray slime, and Angelina, as though no time had passed, laughing. The silver tube shot off again sending a tiny flobberworms shooting off into the air. Angelina gave a small shriek of surprise and dropped the Flobigater with a deafening clang, and they both doubled over in laughter.

His eyes finally threatening to tear, he choked out, "Come here you," and folded his long arms around her in shaking shoulders in a tight embrace. After wiping her wet eyes she managed to get her arms around his thin middle. They embraced for a moment, and Angelina couldn't help but notice that he still smelled of gunpowder and owl feathers. She finally felt his arms loosen, and she let go of him, stepping back to get a good look at her old friend.

They took in each other's changes. Angelina was thinner, but her arms were still muscular. Her once straightened and professional hair was now held together in thousands of long twisted braids, like it was when they were much younger. She smiled up at him, wiping her tearing eyes.

"Honestly George, what does your mother say about this beard?" she asked, reaching up to brush the hair out of his face.

"Aw it was a battle, but she's gotten used to it," he stroked his chin self-consciously. He had grown his shaggy orange hair to just above his shoulders. It was parted crookedly down the middle and the wavy locks fell to the side of his face. His face. He now sported an equally flaming orange beard that covered most of it. It was trimmed short, hugging his thin cheekbones, but it covered the young man's face almost entirely. He was so different looking. She had only ever seen the boys short haired and clean shaven, as Mrs. Weasley undoubtedly commanded.

"Why've you done this to yourself? You look like a young Dumbledore!"

"Well the hair was first, to cover this up," he pushed back his hair to reveal the black gaping hole in the side of his head, "You know, I thought it was brilliant, but the muggle children in London kept shrieking and running away from me."

"And the beard?"

"Well the beard… just… just to look a little different in the mirror," he finished awkwardly.

"Well you look a bit like a…" she said, searching for something to change the subject from the one she didn't ever think she'd be able to discuss.

"A sexy Santa Claus?"

"Yes George, a sexy Santa Claus," she replied, sarcasm heavy in her voice.

"Ah well, I take my compliments as they come. And Angelina Johnson deems me sexy."

"Yeah well, don't let it go to your hairy head."

"What, me? Let it go to my head that ANGELINA JOHNSON OF THE PRIDE OF PORTREE THINGS I'M A SEXY FATHER CHRISTMAS!" he shouted over the railing of the loft. Angelina pulled him back from the bemused crowd, punching him in the chest.

"Umph Ang, some might think you only came back to hurt me."

"Been keeping up with me, eh?"

"Oh well, you know me, a big fan of professional Quidditch," he replied nonchalantly, though she could swear she saw the slightest touch of pink rising to his face behind his beard.

"Though I say, those Portree chasers are really lackluster this year, poor player recruitment if you ask me."

"Oh shut up," she replied, turning away so he couldn't see her reluctant grin. She was immensely relieved by how easy it was to talk to him. He wasn't angry with her for losing touch. He wasn't angry with her at all. Though how could he be? He had no way of knowing. But still, she thought maybe he pieced it together by now, but he hadn't. He'd actually been following her career.

Oh what had she been so nervous about? This was George Weasley. And he was making her feel 16 again.

She knew she shouldn't ask. She didn't deserve to. But she turned around and said, "Do you want to get a cup of tea and catch up?" Where was this courage that had eluded her for 36 months suddenly coming from?

He looked a little surprised, but perhaps excited, and he immediately replied, "Sure."

"We could go to The Little Tea Room around the corner. I practically live on their rock cakes."

"George, you know that's my mum and dad's place."

"Oh right, I forgot. I should probably stop flirting with the shopkeeper's wife then."

"Oh hush," she dismissed him, but wondered all the same if he had actually seen her mother there. When she left Diagon Alley it had been months since any member of the Johnson family had worked there. But Angelina didn't ask, that was a reunion for another day. One she knew wouldn't go as well as the one with George.

"Well I could show you the break room. I have an excellent collection of boring teas Mum keeps sending me in care packages." Without waiting for an answer, as though afraid the offer might be revoked at any moment, he drew his wand and pointed it wordlessly at the ceiling. A violently green crooked ladder emerged from a freshly opening hole above them. He signaled for her to go first. She followed his instruction and climbed into the employee break room. Soon she stood in a surprisingly sterile white ramshackle little room lined with broken boxes, cow skin couches, wooden chairs, and what looked like Hogwarts potion tables. Another pink-pinstriped beauty, this one dark skinned with short metallic hair was whispering excitedly to the shop girl Beatrice in a corner. Angelina looked around uncomfortably when they abruptly stopped their conversation to look intimidatingly at her. She was relieved when George finally clambered up the ladder behind her.

Following her eyes, he noticed the two girls. "Oi! Didn't I tell you to wait for the moonstone delivery? And I believe you're supposed to be running a register right now Kelly. No wonder there's a line to the loo down there!"

"Yessir, sorry Mr. Weasley," they answered simultaneously, shooting Angelina nastily quizzical looks before retreating down the ladder back to their posts.

Angelina wrung her hands uncomfortably and asked the question she'd been wondering since she walked in.

"Do you hire your shop girls from the covers of _Witch Weekley?_" She looked up, surprised to see George looking a bit guilty.

"Well you know, pretty faces sell merchandise," he added quickly, "though those girls are about as daft as doorknobs and as difficult to get to work as one of my trick wands. The whole idea was Fred's in the first place. Uggos must just be born with a work ethic to compensate. I would've hired you, but you're off chasing quaffles in some far away land." He shifted chairs around so they could sit around one table, not looking at her while he talked.

Angelina winced at the name and decided to ask no more of it. But had George Weasley just complimented her? Since when had she known him to be indirect? That was one of the things she always liked about the twins. She admired a mouth that never held its tongue, just like she never did in her younger years.

"Sit," he gestured to the chair nearest her while he shuffled over to the kitchenette to prepare the tea.

"Oh wait, they're may be an invisible whoopee cushion on that one so che…"

But she had already plopped down, and a windy wailing fart noise exhaled from the invisible cushion. Once again thankful her skin hid her reddening face; she just smiled and rolled her eyes before groping under her for the deflated cushion.

"Sorry," he said meekly.

"Hey, anything's better than the puking pastilles you 'accidently' left with my lemon drops."

"Oh yeah, I'd forgotten about that one," he replied with a small snicker.

"I haven't."

"Ah well, at least you weren't Justin Finch-Fletchley. We 'accidentally' spilled a cauldron of swelling solution on his feet in the corridor his second year for blaming Harry for opening the chamber. He was in the hospital wing with clown feet for a week."

"And what had I done to you two?" she asked, the 'you two' came so naturally.

"I don't remember, probably woken us up at 5 am for practice."

"Well early risers get to play professional Quidditch."

He smiled at her, "Fair enough, 110 points in her first game too."

"Well I see I'm in front of my number one fan here." She also couldn't help but to grin at his recognition. He seemed proud of her.

"Well you may be an international Quidditch star, but I just had a rich and famous player come to my shop to buy my personally designed Flobigater, so I think my success is much more noteworthy."

"Well I just shot a rich and famous inventor in the eye with his own creation."

"That you did," he replied, twitching his bruised eye in remembrance.

They sat in silence for a bit, sipping at their bitter tea, looking into their cups.

"How've you been, Ang?" George asked boldly.

She smiled sadly into her cup, "You know… I've been… I've been." Unsure of what to say, she struggled to find words to describe her past three years. How had all those months been? She had her dream job, but she wasn't enjoying it as she expected. She felt off balance, desperately alone, different.

He interrupted her before she could finish her thought.

"Yeah, me too," he said, with a solemn sip from his teacup.

She clicked her nails against her cup, her tea too hot to sip again.

"How's Lee?" she asked, eager for a change in subject.

George chuckled. "Lees alright, he's up in Hogsmeade right now with, guess who, Cho Chang!" he exclaimed, unable to hold back.

"No he isn't!" she gasped like a gossiping school girl.

"Oh yeah, got together a few months ago. Head over heels for that basket case, he is. She's got him wrapped around her little finger. He actually came down last weekend talking nonsense about proposing."

"No! Our Lee?! Our wonderful sleezy Lee wants to get married? To her of all people? George you need to talk some sense into that boy!"

"Oh believe me, I've tried. He won't have a word of it. Hopefully she stops nagging him long enough that he has time to think about his poor life decisions before tying the knot."

She shook her head in disbelief at the impossible news. What else had she missed? It made her feel even older and more distant from her old self.

"Blimey, how long have I been gone?" she wondered aloud.

"A long time," he replied shortly, looking into his cup, the excited gossipy voice gone.

"You missed my 23rd birthday party two months ago," he said, his voice even.

"Yeah I know. I'm sorry George, there was practice and..."

"Don't worry about it. I'd give anything to be 1000 miles away on a broomstick that day. Viktor Krum decided to declare his undying love for Hermione, in front of Ron, so you know, that was fun. Aunt Muriel made mum cry about half a dozen times and four of the shop girls decided to crash the party to giggle. I'm glad you weren't there for that disaster."

Things had changed so much. She felt panicky. The both of them… everyone had changed so much.

"George, I owe you so many apologies. For not being here, I'm sorry, I've just, I've been…"

"Running?"

She was taken aback by the start but accurate description of what she'd been doing. She hadn't wanted to admit it to herself, but she knew it was true.

"Yeah," she replied sadly, looking into her cup for another bout of courage. She expected him to accuse her next. She was a terrible friend. She had left him, and her mother, she'd left everyone she'd ever cared about when they needed her most. She was a coward. A selfish coward. She didn't deserve to go on, to have a career and relationships and kids when so many wouldn't get to. She couldn't understand why he was just sitting calmly across from her, not yelling at her, accusing her, guilting her like she deserved.

"We all did what we needed to do," he said softly.

"You didn't run."

"Yes I did. For months. I told myself I needed to learn to be alone for the first time in my life, and everyone thought just the opposite, and everyone felt the need to stick to me like glue. I thought getting away might help."

"Did it work?"

"Maybe a little. It gave me time to get used to it."

"Are you used to it?" She asked before she thought, and immediately regretted probing. Occasionally she forgot herself, and just said what popped into her mind the moment it did like she did when she was young.

"No. I don't think I'll ever be," He sighed and looked up at the ceiling before continuing, "Let's talk about something happier." His words were forced, "How goes it up North? Is there a team full of hopeful Mr. Johnsons?"

Ignoring the uncomfortableness, happy to have changed the subject, she replied, "Goodness, no. I live in a flat on the isle with the seeker, Dougal McBride, and his wife. I pretty much practise… sleep practise. Actually there's not usually much sleeping going on."

"Oh? Up late into the night partying with the fan club?" he raised his eyebrows in amusement.

She snorted into her cup at the absurdity of the suggestion, "No, I prefer to be alone these days." What _did _she do when she wasn't practising? She decided to shamelessly change the subject again.

"Are you still living in the flat above here?"

"Only when it's cold."

"…when it's cold?"

He smiled slightly and met her eyes, "You would like it. It's probably not as pretty as Scotland but your newly hermit self would like it."

"Like what?" she asked cautiously.

"My place where I like to go to be alone. On purpose. Do you want to go there?"

She perked up. The idea of being alone with him was suddenly enticing.

"But if you come with me, you have to go my way."

Frankly, she was up for something new. She had a new sense of adventure at his proposal; she hadn't felt excited about anything in years. She agreed, and followed him up a bright red ladder he conjured through a newly emerged hole in the ceiling.

She was in his flat. Or at least what used to be his flat. Two unmade twin beds with lime green fuzzy blankets were pushed up against opposite walls. Dirty clothes and garbage littered the floor on both sides of the room, and around the beds there were endless boxes and barrels and stacked floor to ceiling so there was barely room for both of them to stand on bare ground. She held a precariously teetering stack of black boxes upright while George climbed over the mess towards one of the unkempt beds.

"This is your special place?" she asked, disappointed.

"Oh no, this is the old flat we used to live in. I told you, you've got to get there my way."

She watched nervously as he clambered onto one of the green beds, kneeling on the pile of dirty robes thrown onto it.

"Well come on then!" he beckoned for her to follow.

"If this is one of your tricks George…" She nervously started towards him. What were they doing in here? What did he mean by 'his way', where was he taking her? She stopped in front of the bed, standing awkwardly on a pile of dirty pajamas.

He seemed amused by her confusion and hesitation; he was enjoying keeping her in suspense.

"Up you hop Angie," he reached for her, offering his assistance to help her clamber over the last pile of junk on to the bed. Reluctantly she took his arm and awkwardly goose stepped over the pile of broken boxes and joined him kneeling on the small bed.

"Relashio!" He pointed his wand at the ceiling again, and an enormous rusty metal ladder burst from a hole in the roof and dropped down heavily and loudly where she had been standing only moments before. Warm sunlight bathed the room through the new hole to the outside.

They both squinted in the sudden light. She looked up the towering ladder, the end seemed at least 50 feet up. It was a good thing she wasn't afraid of heights.

"These old buildings have lots of secrets. The first time we discovered this ladder, it damn near killed me. I was lying on my bed when Fred said the incantation, he was trying to untie his knotted shoe laces, and the thing came right down and nearly impaled me." He pulled aside the green blanket to reveal a bare mattress with an inkbottle sized hole pierced clean through it, just by the pillow. "I thought it was best then to move the cot over a bit. You know safety first."

This time, she did not wince at the name. She decided that she like the way he spoke about him. He did not try to pretend he never existed, because that was impossible, he simply spoke of him because he was there, and at the time, he mattered. He was just telling his brother's part of the story.

He followed her gaze up the long passageway, "Shall we then?"

The ladder was more than wide enough for the both of them to climb side by side, so they set off together. On the way up they passed three floors of dark, unfinished attic spaces, also crammed full of materials and Weasley products. One room looked like a messy potions lab.

"All this extra space has been dead useful. I don't think the owner even knew how to get up here, or she wouldn't have given us such a great price. All that was up here before was rats and owl droppings," he explained as they passed the storage areas, panting with the effort of climbing.

As they approached the end of the vertical tunnel George moved ahead of her to roll out onto the rooftop, so he could reach a helping hand to her. She didn't take it, but rolled her eyes at him and gracefully lifted herself out of the hole.

"I have never known a Weasley boy to be chivalrous, and I'm not about to start now."

He just grinned sheepishly and righted himself beside her., waiting for her to drink in the view. They had an excellent view of all of Diagon Alley from up there. Knockturn Alley's dark street could be seen in the distance, and the level of damage to Gringotts visible from above was shocking. She walked around the flat rooftop, leaning on the stone barrier surrounding it to get a better look at the familiar sights.

"So this is the place? It is beautiful," she asked, gazing down at the closed doors of her parents' tea shop.

"No, no, we still aren't there. This is just a stop in the journey," he said ominously, before suddenly breaking into a jog, running straight for the edge of the rooftop. He jumped onto the short stone wall that lined the perimeter of the rectangular rooftop. He stopped and stood there, teetering precariously in the breeze on the precipice. He turned back and grinned at her.

"What the hell George?! You nearly gave me a heart attack!" she shouted, alarmed at his sudden behavior.

He had that mischievous look back in his dark eyes as he held out a hand behind him, and signaled for her to join him.

"If you're having a laugh this isn't funny."

"Oh when I have a laugh, it's always funny. Come. I told you, we have to go there my way. The journey is just as important as the destination."

She hesitated, but eventually gave into his mock pleading face and took his arm as she steadily climbed onto the ledge. Her heart pounded against her chest as she looked down at her toes, which were spilling out over the edge, joining the landscape that was so far below. She felt naked at this height without a broomstick, and she clutched George's forearm like the neck of her firebolt.

"What are we doing up here?" she asked, her voice wavering.

"Okay, so you don't need to do anything, just hold onto me and jump when I say 3."

"Wait, what?!"

"I said, my way. Trust me. ONE TWO.."

"HOLD ON I…!"

"Three!" he spoke the last number eerily quietly, grabbed the arm that was clutching his other arm for dear life, grinned, and launched himself from the rooftop. He felt her leave the ledge with him, her hand forming a tight vice around his wrist.

The stone street was approaching fast. In an instant she could make out the individual cobblestones rushing towards her. She was surely about to smack into the hard ground. Adrenaline like she'd never felt before was pulsing through her body.

CRAACKK

The familiar compression of apparition suddenly squeezed her entire body, and her hand felt fused to George's arm. But a strange, comforting feeling of weightlessness accompanied the feeling. They seemed to twist together through space; she had never felt anything like it.

CRAACKK

She landed with a thud on a soft surface. Sand filled her open mouth and she struggled into a sitting position, sputtering in surprise. Spitting out sand and trying to slow her racing heart, she looked up at George, who looked to have landed much more gracefully. He was shaking sand from the folds of his robes, panting, and looking at her with apprehension, awaiting her reaction.

Still too shocked and disoriented to speak she looked around at her surroundings. They were on a beach somewhere. A cool mist came off the waves crashing into the white sand. Behind her, orange and sweet green cliffs rose from the sand and rocks. The plant life rustled gently in the breeze and small stone pebbles rolled and retreated with the white waves. There was no one around; there were no buildings, only a flurry of small white gulls that picked at the retreating water.

"Where are we?" she croaked.

"West coast of Wales somewhere, I'm not really sure. Bill and Fleur's place is about two miles from here. It's uh, well let me show you.

"No more surprises," she demanded as she clambered to her feet, brushing the dry sand off her robes.

"Only good surprises?" he asked tentatively, like he was expecting one of her outbursts from her captaining days at any moment.

She didn't reply; she just followed him, struggling to keep up with his long legs in the high dry sand. He was walking fast towards the flat cliffs that jutted straight towards the sky from the beach_. Great_, she thought_, now we'll be walking through stone for our next act._

But he stopped just short of the cliff and pulled away some of the dry green vegetation at the base of the cliff. He looked back at her and smiled. Behind the plants was a hidden, rickety wooden staircase that weaved its way up a widening crack in the cliff up to a small shed on stilts.

They ascended the uneven stairs together. The little wooden shed was whitewashed from the beaming sun and salty winds, and beaten from decades of storms. It was scarcely larger than a broom shed, and it didn't have a door, just an opening taking up almost the entire front facing the ocean covered by a heavy midnight blue curtain. There was another deep hammock, suspended on one side by the corner of the shed, and held up by thin air on the other. Dark green moss and short grass spotted the A-line rooftop, and a single cracked white clamshell was fastened under its peak, facing the sea it had come from.

George pulled back the curtains to either side of the doorway and tied them off with dark tassels. The inside of the shed was revealed, and Angelina gasped at the sight. There was nothing but a deep blue feather down mat, lifted off the ground by wooden packing crates, lined with squishy dark cushions along the shed walls.

She stepped inside, ducking under the low overpass, and George followed suit. There was barely room for the two of them to stand, and George had to duck in the low structure. Light sprinkled in through the knots and gaps between the wooden slats. A single pair of old Wellington boots rested just inside the entranceway. She turned towards the sea, it was a breathtaking view. Perched above the beach like a child's tree house, the cabin had a sweeping view of the pebbled shoreline, jagged cliffs, and the endless ocean.

George shuffled past her and collapsed onto the feather mattress behind her.

"Oh George," she gasped, turning around to look at him.

"Do you like it?"

"I think I love it here," her face grew warm at her honestly. Turning again towards the view, she fumbled blindly to sit down next to George. Finally ripping her eyes away from the landscape, she had time to consider where they were. Suddenly she was uncomfortable.

"This isn't where you bring all those pinstriped girls from your shop, is it?" She expected him to retort with a clever comment, but he just simply replied,

"No. No one knows about this place."

Guilt overcame her at this confession. He was giving her so much, so much more than she deserved. He deserved to know the truth so that he could properly hate her, like he should. Hands trembling, she reached into her tiny rucksack and retrieved a small black flask. She tossed it to George, offering him the first go. He grinned, probably remembering the stolen spirits they all used to escape to the top of the astronomy tower with. He threw back his head and took a deep swig. He shuddered and handed the container back to her. She did the same with the ease of a seasoned drinker.

The harsh liquid burned her tongue, but only for a moment. A warm tingling sensation followed the drink down, and then spread throughout her body, warming her chilled fingers and toes from within. As the fire whiskey reached her brain the homely smell of cinnamon filled her nostrils, and a comforting hand felt like it was placed on her shoulders. She grinned dumbly to herself and tossed the flask back to George, allowing him to finish off the treat. With a new sense of ease she allowed herself to fall back onto the cushions beside him. She listened to him finish the flask, and then they sat in silence, listening to the distant waves crashing against the shore. After a long while, Angelina spoke up.

"George?"

"Mhm?"

"How did you discover you could apparate like that?"

A long silence followed. They both stared out to sea.

"One day, I just felt like flying again."

She didn't respond. She allowed for a long silence again.

"What is this place?" She heard him smirk from behind her.

"A boat shed, belonging to the old muggle that lives over the cliff. I reckoned he hadn't been down here in years by the state of it so I just kind of… made it my own."

"Well I love it."

"Thanks."

Another long pause followed. The roaring waves and rustling bushes filled the silence, before George's deep voice filled the cabin again.

"Ang?"

"Yeah?"

"Remember in our first year, in charms class, when you were paired up with Alicia and you accidentally levitated your desk instead of the feather, and it smacked Flitwick in the nose?"

That was a memory she had completely forgotten about. Now she could see it like it was yesterday. Her and Alicia, hands clapped over their mouths, Professor Flitwick's long nose spurting blood as he ushered nasally reassurances to the girls through choked speech as he struggled to hold his flooding nose; Fred and George and half the class snickering in the background. How terrified they both were! It was only the first week, and they'd already injured a teacher! Alicia was nearly in tears. How comically trivial it seemed now. Angelina couldn't help but to snicker at her own childish worry. It was hard to believe that she once lay up at night worrying about a teacher not liking her, and what her father would say if she got an owl home about her behavior. It was nothing like what kept her awake at night now.

"That was us," he said with a small laugh.

"What?"

"Fred and I. We tried to make the desk jump to scare you two, and well Flitwick walked by…"

"HA!" Oh how she would've clobbered him only a few short years ago over this revelation. Goodness, her first year felt like a million years ago, she thought, while laughing madly at Alicia's face. How red it got. How terrified they were to go to class the next week. They were so naive, so young and so innocent. Angelina cackled like a mad person at the ridiculousness and pointlessness of it all. And the sadness of it all. Dry sobs began to escape between the insane, manic laughter, and soon they overtook it. She didn't care that she must have looked like a crazy person. Thoughts and memories raced through her brain like she had not allowed to happen since she left. Soon all she did was cry. She cried like she never had before. She cried for friends. She cried for their mothers, she cried for her father, she cried for George, and she cried for herself. She thought she felt hands grip her shoulders, but she hardly noticed over her own racing mind and wails of grief. Everyone was so foolish, and so innocent. It had been so long since that day, nearly twelve years. Older than they were at the time.

Suddenly she felt like an old woman. She had certainly felt enough sorrow and had seen as much pain as one. She felt tired and weary, tired of life and the pain and cruelty it brought. Her youth and her innocence were long gone, blasted away in the castle she once called home.

She felt the hands tighten and pull her sideways. A long warm arm stretched across her desperately heaving chest, and another folded her into a tight embrace against a welcoming body. She sobbed uncontrollably into his robes.

"I miss her so much," she choked out, her voice muffled by his chest.

"I know," replied a soft voice. She gulped and looked up to see two closed eyes, silent tears leaking from the corners and trickling down into the rough beard. He looked so old. He was an old man too. He had loved and lost like one, but he was left with a cruelly long life left to face alone. There were flecks of gray sprinkling his long dirty hair. How had she not noticed that before? His youth had been taken from him too. Why had she spent so much time running from the one man who was as lonely as she was? She looked at him a moment longer, before feeling that she was invading something private, and she looked back out again. She swallowed her tears and reached a long comforting arm across his middle, because he needed one too. They sat there for a long time, together, looking out over the endless ocean that lay before them.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Soon the sun began to set, and the small cabin began to feel like being inside a portrait. They sat and watched as the world turned without them, bathing in the purple and red rays that poked through the wooden boards. They held onto each other, for tonight, they were finally not grieving alone. The two lay against the cushions, listening to the roaring ocean and the rustling leaves, allowing the breathtaking show the earth was giving them chase away the flashbacks. Before too long the horizon had disappeared, leaving only the blind sounds of hooting owls and crashing waves. Moonlight filled the little cabin; it was a full moon that night. The gray light left their faces in dark shadows, lightened only by the gaps between the boards of the rooftop.

Angelina sat up, body aching from lying down so long, head throbbing from her sobs. She looked back at George, who was struggling to right himself.

"I missed you too," she told him, and she thought she saw a smile in his eyes at her words, but she couldn't be sure in the shadowed cabin.

"Haven't got any more of that fire whiskey have you?" he asked, groaning as he stretched his back. He was embarrassed that he had made her cry and wasn't eager to get back on the subject.

"No, I haven't," she replied, embarrassed at her gesture, which he hadn't returned, she began to wish did have another flask.

George began fumbling around in the inside of his robes, hidden objects clanking and clanging as he rummaged. Finally he pulled from his robes a long, thin wooden pipe, which he ignited with the tip of his wand. He took a long, dry drag, looking out into the ocean. Purple puffs of smoke and a warm red light filled the space. He held the pipe out to Angelina, offering it to her.

"Now George! What would your mother say?" she asked mockingly, amused by this new change in him.

In an eerily accurate impression of his mother George shouted, "You'll end up like that worthless sack of dung beetles, Mundungus Fletcher if you keep that nasty habit up, you will! _Do excuse my language deary_," he added sweetly, directed at her, "but I will not have that awful thing under my roof, so out, out, OUT!"

Angelina took a long drag and collapsed into a fit of coughing giggles as he finished, and George couldn't help but to crack a smile at his own impression. Now lightheaded, her headache seemed to lift and float away with the rising smoke she felt like she had been hit with a weak cheering charm. A thin purple haze soon filled the cabin, and the pair lay lazily in the hazy light, finally able to talk and laugh together like old times, as long as they were both careful to avoid the mention of certain people.

She told him stories of living with Dougal and is muggle wife, Suellen. Suellen was a farmer's daughter who had grown up on a remote part of the isle, in almost complete isolation form the rest of the muggle world, with only her books and television as insight to the outside world. She was a funny character unlike anything either one of them had ever seen growing up in the wizarding world. She told George about how she kept a "telly"" in the house, a square black box in which a picture of a person told them the news of the muggle world like a radio did; she even said that Suellen had introduced her to a few "programmes" on the television that were quite funny, though she omitted how lonely she felt when they settled down in front of it every night as the as the sun set and Suellen curled up in Dougal's lap on the overstuffed squishy armchair with his strong arms wrapped around her in a loving embrace while Angelina sat alone on the hard double armchair next to them.

"If you ever see my dad, don't tell him about any of this, he'll talk your ear off with questions if you mention that you live with a muggle," he advised her, "and I, for one, cannot afford that."

She giggled dumbly in the semi darkness and continued on. She told him about Suellen's mad ravings about the muggle prime minister and the secrets she felt he was keeping from the country.

"She takes aero-planes and disappears for weeks at a time so she can go protest in London about it. Fat lot it seems like it'd do though, standing in front of buildings, shouting about how unhappy you are, don't you think?"

"Don't tell her that the prime minister knows all about us and keeps all of their lot in the dark."

"No! The muggle ministry knows about us?" she gasped, smugly imagining the incredulous and outraged expression on Suellen's face when she heard this bit of news.

"Oh yeah, Dad told me himself. Says their ministry must need some answers for all the mess out lot causes. Even muggles couldn't ignore thousands of dementors breeding above their largest city. Anyway, their ministry can't be so bad, at least they aren't secretly controlled by a bloke with a snake for a deputy minister."

"Well you'd think they were, the way she goes on about it. Oh George!" she half shouted when she remembered with a laugh, "you should've seen her the first time she tried to fly a broomstick!"

"Isn't that illegal?"

"Oh most definitely, but when has that ever stopped any of us?" she asked with a smirk, puffing on the long pipe, purple smoke shooting through her nostrils.

As Angelina went on about her new life in Portree George began to wish he had stories he could tell too. The most exciting thing that he did in the past month was catch a rubbish shoplifter. Whether she was happy or not, she had at least moved on with her life. She was having new adventures with new friends in new places. What had he done? Started sleeping in a shack by the ocean because he couldn't stand the flat he had once shared with his brother, or the home in which his mother spent her days, alone, cleaning and cooking for a family that had left her nest long ago? What accomplishments. He hadn't met anyone new; he didn't have any new hilarious stories about friends. His friends were all dead or had moved on. He was lucky if anyone came to visit him anymore. Hell, Angelina hadn't visited in three years.

He thought about the shop and again he had that burning, itchy feeling in the back of his head of never wanting to return there. He shook it out of his mind as she talked. That shop was his dream,_ our dream_, and it was going better than they ever could've imagined it would.

_Well except for one thing, _he thought bitterly. When he returned to the shop now he felt like he was dragging his feet and forcing himself to walk into the Great Hall for his OWL examinations. He ignored this feeling, because it wasn't right. Fred would never feel that way. Fred would keep up the store, and he would've kept the dream alive until the day he died, happily.

_I guess he did._


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Neither were really sure when it happened, but they both eventually drifted off to sleep in the smoky, musty cabin.

George woke first the next morning, slightly disoriented, and wet. Why was he wet? He rubbed his eyes in the morning sunlight and shivered; Angelina was still fast asleep, sprawled on her back, head rested on his lower legs, an arm and a leg dangling from the side of the mattress. A thick twisted braid lay across her face, twitching with every exhale from her slightly ajar mouth. Her robes were badly wrinkled and half-heartedly bundled around her, as though she had gotten cold during the night and tried to wrap herself up, but had given up or fallen back asleep in the process.

He couldn't help but to chuckle at the sight of her, and he held his aching legs still as to not wake her. She was not nearly as graceful in sleep as she was on a broomstick, or waltzing in the Great Hall. As she lay there, still and silent except for the occasional snort, he got his first chance to really look at her. She was much thinner than he remembered, and she now sported stark cheekbones and narrow legs. She still had her legendary quaffle throwing arms; her impressively toned biceps were now looking even more threatening on such a small frame. Those arms still frightened him. Angelina was one of the few people that ever frightened him. Only her and his mother had ever been able to keep the boys in check, as they generally listened to no one. How many times had those arms leave fist sized welts on his arms and ribs for a smart comment or prank gone too far?

If only he had won that stupid contest all those years ago, things wouldn't be like this, so unfixable. Their distance was because of a force neither of them was willing to break.

The sleeping Angelina gave a small, unflattering grunt and a small involuntary shiver and she wrapped her dangling arms around herself in a tight hug. George looked up. The roof of the cabin was moist and dripping, and now the earthy smell of the wetness above mixed with the salty mist of the low tide. He had forgotten to use the impervius charm to protect the cabin from the infamous morning dew. Suddenly aware of how cold he was, and how badly his legs ached, he brushed the thick strand of hair off Angelina's face, stroking her cheek gently to wake her. She did not stir at his touch. Unsure of what to do, and tired of stretching awkwardly to reach her without bending the legs she was using as a pillow, he gave her chin a little wiggle then gently shook her shoulders. Again she didn't flinch.

Starting to grow concerned, he gave her shoulders a hard roll while whispering, "Ang, it's time to get up now." To his surprise, an annoyed mumble came from her grumbling mouth as she turned towards the wall, away from George.

"Sod off Leash."

He shook his head in disbelief, wondering how she had ever managed to wake herself up for 5am practise. Apparently she slept like a troll.

"I guess you learn something new every day," he thought aloud to himself, not bothering to whisper as he knew it would do no harm. Amused, but legs really starting to ache, he took a deep breath and shouted, "ANG! WE'RE LATE FOR POTIONS!"

Her head snapped around, eyes unfocused and disoriented, she spilled out, "but I didn't finish my essay yet!" before she got a grasp on the reality of where she was.

"What the?" she mumbled, looking around the cabin, and then at George's amused face.

"Morning sleeping beauty," he teased as she tried to smooth her frizzed hair and rub her crusted eyes.

"Merlin, why is it so cold?" she asked, shivering in her damp clothes.

"I forgot to waterproof the shack, come on, let's get out in the sun."

They emerged from the secluded cabin, blinking in the blinding summer sunlight. The ocean was far from them now, in low tide, and the shimmering dark blue ocean sparkled brilliantly in the distance. Angelina moved ahead and bounded down the rickety staircase, throwing off her damp robes as she went. She threw herself on the hot sand like she were making a snow angel, not caring about the dry sand that billowed up over her long pants and short sleeved sweater. Her long dark braids splayed out beautifully over the white sand; the contrast was strangely mesmerizing. George stood halfway up the stairs for a moment, watching her; he felt like he could watch her for hours. He lingered on for another moment before shedding his met and wrinkled green robes to join her.

He carefully lay down next to her, following her eyes to the unusually fluffy white clouds drifting in the sky above them. The warm sun warmed his back and the beating sun on his face was so satisfying that he wished he could lay there forever with her.

After a moment he turned his head towards her as she stared at the sky.

"I'm glad you came back."

She turned her neck in the sand to face him.

"I'm not staying," she said simply, emotionless.

"I know." Of course he knew. Behind his happiness that she was here, and that he was not alone, he knew that she wasn't here to stay. How could she be? She had a career, a home, a new life beyond Hogwarts and what had happened there. Despite knowing this, he couldn't help but to feel disappointed. For what, exactly, he wasn't exactly sure.

"I don't belong here anymore. In Diagon Alley anyway," she explained, looking back up at the clouds.

George knew there were a lot of things being left unsaid between them at that moment, and he suspected that she knew too. There were so many things he should say, that he wanted to say, but for all the explanations and questions and random words floating around in his head he could not think of a single thing to say.

Still struggling to put something in meaningful, coherent words for her, he was alarmed to see her start to stand up. A desperate, pleading voice inside his head told him that he did not want her to go.

"I have to get back to the Leaky Cauldron. I have an appointment to get my broom fixed today."

He scrambled up after her.

"You can come back here. Whenever you want. It's as much yours as it is mine," he blurted after her as she was beginning to brush off her tossed robes. What was wrong with him? He used to be so smooth, he never had a problem finding what to say and how to say it before, especially to her. It frustrated him immensely.

She paused and smiled sadly at him, her dark eyes darting between his, like she was searching for something in his eyes. Suddenly he found himself desperately hoping that he would find her here again.

"Thank you," she said softly, and with a turn and a crack she was gone.

Was that all she had to say to him? He thought more about the words she had spoken to him that morning and the night before. An appointment to get her broom fixed? He replayed in his mind as much of the previous night's conversation as he could remember, but he could not find anything in her stories about a broken broom. Is that the only reason she had returned? Not to see him, was he merely a stop along the journey? Would she go to appointment today, then take a portkey back to Scotland, not to be seen again for another three years?

Suddenly he felt angry again as he stood alone on the deserted beach. He hadn't felt angry in a long time, but Merlin knew he had felt enough anger to last a lifetime already. He yanked his wand from his waist band; it quivered in his hand as emotion pumped through him. He lavished his wand in a high ark, pointing it at the wet sand just beyond the waves reach.

"REDUCTO!" he bellowed, a powerful surge pulsing through the wood before he even finished the incantation. The sand erupted from a newly bored hole in the earth. Wet clumps of sand blasted 30 feet in the air, raining down into the water with sickening plunks as though someone had fired a cannonball at the ground. A small flurry of gulls fled the explosion, several being hit and thrown off course by debris.

Panting, wand and hand still shaking, he stared at the monstrous crater he had created in the beach he loved so much. He tried to calm his anger, sitting down in the sand, but his head was now flooded with unwanted memories of the day his brother died.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

His father held his upper arm. A muffled voice he barely recognized spoke behind him.

"It's time to go son."

_But it's not time to go,_ he thought in a strange, clouded voice that was not his own. _Of course it wasn't time to go._

He was looking down into the lifeless face of his twin brother, who was lying on the cold marble floor of the Great Hall. His own face, dead. His brother. His partner, his best friend, his twin was lying there, eyes closed in the very spot where they had been thrown from the age line, gray bearded and laughing. But there was nothing and no one around them now; there was no dust, no destruction, no death, and no friends. It was just him and Fred. _Fred and George_. Together in the Great Hall.

Fred wasn't alive anymore, but he was here.

And Dad was telling him it was time to go.

_"No, that isn't right" _said the calm, cloudy voice again. _Of course that wasn't right._

His eyes flickered down Fred's body. He did not process the tears in his robes or the shrapnel cuts littering his skin.

_"That's odd," _he thought calmly to himself, _"Mum isn't lying on top of him sobbing anymore." _He wondered vaguely where she had gone, not bothering to wonder why he hadn't heard her wails stop.

Someone was tugging on his arm.

"George, we need to leave him now."

It sounded like Dad, but Dad would never leave Fred here when he needed to go to the hospital wing to see Madam Pomfrey. _Why isn't he bringing him to see Madam Pomfrey? That wasn't right. _

His eyes remained fixed on Fred's face, ignoring the bloody open gash peeking out from under his hairline and the unnaturally white skin littered with hundreds of tiny dark shards. Someone had closed his eyes. His eyes were slightly droopier in the outer corners, but only just. That's how people could tell them apart when they were together. If they were alone, which rarely happened anyway, it was nearly impossible to tell the difference for anyone who wasn't family.

His eyes did not move from his twin's face as his father tugged on his arm again and apparated them both from the Great Hall. Then he was staring at a stone wall.

"Sit down Georgie."

Someone was guiding him to a chair, hands clamped on both of his shoulders to steady his wavering body. He was placed in a hard wooden chair set around a table. They weren't at home, where were they? He found that he didn't much care. His mother sat across from him, sobbing into a tea towel, peeking blurred glances at him as he sat. Ginny, face red and swollen with tears had her head rested on her mother's broad should like a small child. Next to her sat Bill with Fleur on his lap. His scarred eyes were wet too, and he watched George carefully behind his fallen hair. Fleur was silent in his lap, she too was disheveled and teary eyed, prodding at a knot in the table to avoid his eyes. A sharp cry made him jump. Percy's thin frame was curled up in a chair in the corner, hugging his knobby knees and rocking, staring at a fixed point in front of him. To George's right sat Ron, who looked too shocked to cry like the rest of them, but instead stared up at his older brother with a desperate, sad eyes.

A crack made them all jump as Charlie materialized in the opposite end of the room.

"I just got your owl Dad…" he looked around the dining room at his family, taking in the disheveled and devastated faces. His eyes stopped last on George before he swept across the room again, desperately looking for the missing member. Realization swept over his face as it broke, his voice cracking.

"No."

His toughest brother welled up with tears as he croaked again, barely audible.

"No."

His eyes swept the room again, desperately waiting for someone to contradict him. His father, still standing, folded his second oldest son in a comforting embrace; his own eyes now dry as he held his grieving child.

George placed his elbows on the table for support, his eyes finally welling up. He felt like he was drowning. He held head before looking up at his mother, who was looking at him with an expression he had never seen before. He held his clenched fists up to his mouth, trying to slow his increasingly fast, panicky breathing.

"Mum," a sob finally escaping him between his soft spoken words, "Fred died."

"Oh George." She stood up, throwing Ginny from her shoulder and rushed around to his side of the table. She threw her arms around his shoulders, hugging him as though he would float away if she didn't hold him with all her strength. She tried to run her fingers through his hair but he broke out into heavy, heaving sobs, muffling them in his hands.

He could feel all their eyes on him.

"I know honey, I know."

Her tight embrace was too warm. His sobs were replaced by frantic, panicked breathing. It was much too hot. The room was so small and hot. And Fred was gone, forever. Panic overtook him and he stood up, trying to shake his mother's tight grasp. He could barely breath, he could barely see, dark blotches clouded his vision and his head was on fire. He desperately clawed at the fastens of his robes, sweat pouring down his back and forehead. It was much too hot. Finally ripping his robes off he stood in his sweat soaked undershirt and trousers; he felt sick and made a clumsy, desperate lunge for the backdoor. He burst through it and collapsed into the garden and vomited into the sand. He heaved onto the ground, his face dripping with sweat, tears, blood and sick, panic still flowing though his body.

"Oh Georgie, Georgie sweetie, it'll be alright," Mrs. Weasley burst through the door of Shell Cottage after him, collapsing onto her knees next to him, dabbing at his dripping face with her tea towel, her voice cracking with every word. Everything that she said that acknowledged and confirmed her son's death caused her great pain, but she powered through it for the son she still had.

"George, Fred died today, but he lives on with you," came the soft, even voice of his father. Mr. Weasley had followed his wife from the house and knelt into the soft sand on George's other side.

"You know he died to ensure a better future. We all knew the risks and repercussions if we did not fight. Fred was so brave, just like you, and he left all of us better people for having known and loved him."

Molly looked across George at the father of her children, more thankful than ever that he was there. His strength and bravery in the worst of times never ceased to amaze her, nor did the fact that he loved her and her children every day of his life.

"George, dear, I know it's going to be a big adjustment…"

He snorted at the word and spit at the sand.

"Big bloody adjustment alright," eyes widening manically at the ground with every word he spoke, unable to face his parents. Molly did not flinch when her son swore at her; she just patted his back to let him know she was still there.

He stood up abruptly, wiping his nose and mouth with his bare, bloody arm.

"I need to go for a walk," he announced, avoiding his parent's eyes. It was getting too hot again.

"George, I don't think…" Mrs. Weasley began to protest, but Arthur placed a hand on her shoulder and shook his head silently. Molly opened her mouth to say more, but looking at her broken son she swallowed her words and meekly pleaded, "Please come back soon."

Without another word or a glance at his mother or father, he stuffed his hands in his pockets and turned and walked across the sandy and grassy hill top towards the slowly rising sun, head hanging in thought.

Molly watched her son go, walking off towards the horizon, alone. Arthur wrapped his arm around her shoulders, hugging her tight next to him. She couldn't fix this with a warm hug and a cup of hot cocoa. Her child hurt so much and there was nothing she could do. And Fred. Her miracle twin, she had let him go. She had let one half of the pair of boys she loved so much die. She had let him die, her sweet, mischievous, brilliant boy. He was so young, only just twenty, and now he was dead before his life had really begun. She would never plan his wedding, she would never hold his children, she would never watch him grow old. She felt so helpless and so failed as a mother.

Her boys. One was gone and the other was leaving with him, and there was nothing she could do about it. She couldn't protect them this time; she couldn't fix what had happened. There was nothing she could do, and that made her feel so small.

As the ground hardened from dry sand to grass he began to walk faster. He moved at the pace of his breathing as he walked in a straight line from the house, crossing over fields and rolling hills. Soon he was walking along the sharp edge of the towering cliffs running alongside the rocky ocean. Without looking down he picked up the pace, hands still shoved in his trouser pockets. He started to move faster along the ledge.

He had a stark reality to face; he was alone now. He'd never been alone. There had only been fourteen minutes of his life that he had lived without his brother by his side, the day he was born. And now he was supposed to live the rest of his life alone? Twins weren't supposed to be alone.

_We were not meant to become "I"._

He would really never see him again. He would never invent and plan and scheme and create with his brother again. Now he would sleep alone, work alone, eat alone, and grow old alone.

It wasn't fair.

He remembered again being tossed from the age line in their sixth year, gray bearded and wrinkled and laughing together, like always. Was that really the only time they would ever get to see each other as old men? Did Fred's life… Was Fred's piece of story really ending only a month and a day after their 20th birthday?

Who the hell got to decide that? It wasn't fair, it wasn't right.

_ It should have been Percy blown apart by that wall, that treacherous pompous prat. He deserved that._

But even Percy didn't deserve that, George knew, but Fred sure as hell didn't.

He teetered on the precipice of the cliff, unafraid. Fred hadn't been afraid of death, so neither was George.

_In fact, I might as well join him, so we can be together causing mayhem together in the next life too. _

He walked faster still. His mum had already lost her twins, so what was the difference if he finished destroying what was already broken in two? How could he go on living without him? He didn't know how to do anything alone. How the hell was he supposed to run a bloody store all by himself? He ran his hands over his face and felt his emerging stubble and short, dirty hair. He rubbed his dark eyes, thinking about his own face. Now he was the only one it belonged to. That was a strange and scary sensation for a boy who had grown up looking at his reflection in his twin brother's face.

How was he supposed to face his mother everyday bearing the face of her murdered son? Hell, how was he supposed to look in the mirror every day?

He took his hands from his face and looked at them; they were covered in grime and sweat and blood. For the tiniest fraction of a second he had the desire to turn to his twin and remark that he must look like he had robbed a grave.

The realization that he Fred was not there to quip with, and never would be again hit him like a Cruciatus curse. His stomach was doing painful backflips and his head was splitting with red hot pain as adrenaline and panic pulsed through his body. Searing anger rose to the front of his brain, making his ear ring with every ounce of self-control he was exercising to prevent himself from blasting away the landscape.

He began to run. With no care for where he ended up, he ran with all the strength his exhausted body could muster, sprinting faster along the horizon than the sun could rise. He hurdled over rocks and pushed through deep pockets of sand that struggled to hold him back until the rough cliff he was dangling on the edge of began to wind down towards the ocean. He followed the decline blindly, letting gravity carry his long legs over the rocky terrain faster than he ever could on his own. He felt like an ax was being swung at his ribcage and his lungs felt like they were being used as punching bags, and finally his sleep and food deprived body could carry him no longer and he collapsed at the base of the cliff in a soft pillow of dry white sand.

He doubled over and moaned in physical pain, clutching clumps of sand as his sides were being stabbed with white hot knives and his calf muscles were being pulled and stretched and knotted into tight balls. Memories of his brother's scarred and destroyed face flashed in front of his eyes, not allowing him to ignore anything. His hair was matted together with thick brown clumps of dry blood and his broken nose lay crooked, jabbing sharply to one side; purple and blue swelling bruises from the impacts of blasting stone were littered with thousands of tiny, bloody shrapnel wounds. His eyes would never open again; they would never look over at him with a mischievous twinkle when a new invention worked or a joke brought a whole room to tears.

He screamed in agony and threw the clumps of sand towards the water. He staggered to his feet, ignoring the shooting pain and instead giving into the anger and grief that was controlling his body. He yelled with anger until his voice cracked and grew hoarse. He picked up pieces of driftwood form a pile on the beach and threw them and smashed them against the solid rock wall of the cliff.

He worked his way through the pile of wood, screaming in anger and pain, hands blistering and ringing with the impacts, hot angry tears streaming down his face as he smashed each piece of wood into unrecognizable useless bits, just like his twin brother.

When there was finally nothing left to destroy he kicked the sand in frustration, hands still reverberating painfully from the beating, voice to sore and hoarse to continue screaming.

Then he heard a voice.

He whipped around, clawing at his chest for his wand, but realizing with a jolt that it was still in the robes he had shed back at the house. Alarmed, he searched the landscape frantically for source of the voice until he finally found it.

A tiny woman, older than his mother but younger than his grandmother stood halfway up the rocky pathway he had just barreled down. Her long brown dress and waist length thick white hair billowed and whipped around her in the ocean winds, giving her the appearance of a battered, but once beautiful wind-blown statue. Large gem-stoned earrings dangled from tarnished bronze settings hung on her stretched ears, and her neck was adorned with half a dozen heavy old medallions and rock and crystal necklaces held together by thick, worn brown twine. The same twine lined both of her thin wrists nearly up to her elbows with braided and twisted bracelets. Her face was dreadfully tanned and wrinkled beyond her years, which contrasted drastically with her young, round, stunningly deep blue eyes that twinkled in the sunlight like the roaring ocean she presided over.

She called to him again in a foreign tongue.

"I don't speak Welsh," he yelled back, turning his dirty and tear stained face away from her, irritated at her presence.

"Well you bloody well ought to learn if you're going to be coming down to my beach and destroying my driftwood!" she scolded, descending the rocky pathway with surprising ease for her age, with a sense of boldness and authority that reminded him of his mother in a rage.

He wiped as much of his face as he could on the inside of his sweat soaked tee-shirt. After everything that had happened today, was it really about to end with him being scolded by an old muggle woman who didn't even know about the brutal war that had been fought and all of the great people who had lost their lives so that she could continue to live in her ignorant bliss?

He hated this woman was strutting towards him, ears jangling and wagging a gaudy, ringed finger at his face. He really hated her. He wished he had his wand so he could confund her and blast her precious sticks into even smaller bits.

"Just because you're upset about something doesn't give you the right to come onto my beach and destroy the wood I spent all week collecting!" she stared up at him intimidatingly, unafraid of the blood covered, boiling over with anger young man towering over her at nearly twice her height.

"I see it in your eyes," she spat at him in a lightened, almost mystic tone like that of a seer, "You hate me. You're wondering who the hell I am, aren't you? Well this is my bleeding beach you're wrecking!" She continued to stare up at him with her mesmerizing blue eyes, daring him to respond.

"My twin brother was murdered a few hours ago, so I really couldn't give a damn about your _bleeding _driftwood," he tried to sound intimidating, but he was so hoarse and exhausted and hurt at the words coming from his own mouth that it came off as a trailing, cracking whine, making him feel like a small child being reprimanded.

He could hardly focus on her now, nor could he feel angry anymore. Black blotches filled his vision again, and his hearing became muffled and distorted.

Her expression did not change.

"Well then, I just put some water in the kettle and some eggs on the frying pan, best you come on up."

"What?" he asked, confused and wavering on his own feet, certain that he had misunderstood her thick Welsh accent through his ringing ear.

"Wherever you came from, you aren't getting back there like this, now are you?" she asked harshly, no charity in her voice.

George smacked his lips to say more, but his mouth was too dry and his teeth were full of dry, gritty sand.

"Come on, up you pop, let's get some scrambled eggs in you. I saw you running down here like a madman." She jingled up the pathway, beckoning for him to follow.

George really didn't know what to do. He looked back towards the rolling hills and sandy fields he had crossed; Shell Cottage must have been miles away, and he wasn't even sure where. She was right; he probably wouldn't make it back in his condition. He slapped his own face and blinked a few times to restore his focus and his vision long enough to climb the rocky incline.

She moved quickly in front of him, and she struggled to keep up in his semi-conscious exhausted state. She led him to small wood cottage on top of the cliff he had not seen on the way down. It had once been a deep blue, but now it was battered and white washed by the salty winds. The outside was adorned with dozens of hanging knickknacks and wind chimes and colorful pinwheels where stuck randomly in the sand leading up to the front door, along with endless pieces of broken pottery and ceramic statues. The entire house gave a musical ring as the wind blew by it.

At this point George was fairly sure he was hallucinating.

She sat him down in a cramped breakfast nook just off the small, cluttered kitchen. What could be seen of the walls of the cottage behind the hundreds of hanging paintings, mostly of the ocean, photographs and knickknacks were painted the same calming blue the exterior had once been. Dark vines lined the moulding along the ceiling in every space he could see, dangling down and filling even more of the overwhelmingly cramped space. A small black and white television with a pile of old newspapers stacked precariously on top quietly announced play by play from a football match. He struggled to make his long legs fit under the tiny table; every time he bumped the underside with his knees a small avalanche of papers, dried leaves and scrapbooking trimmings cascaded to the floor. The woman busied herself over the stove, her back to him.

"Did Voldemort kill him?"

"What?" A cold chill running through him, George perked up, dazed and confused from exhaustion and hunger, desperately hoping that he was hearing things.

"I asked who killed him, your brother."

Jarred, but confident now that he had imagined the old muggle mentioning He Who Must Not Be Named, he answered truthfully.

"I don't know."

He hadn't realized that he didn't actually know who-or what had actually blasted apart the wall that had killed Fred.

She turned towards him, a glass filled to the brim with orange juice in one hand and a plate with two pieces of buttery toast topped with white, fluffy, steaming scrambled eggs in the other. She placed the food and drink in front of him and he was suddenly filled with the suspicious wariness of strangers that he had been forced to live with these past few years.

He stared down at the eggs on toast. They were lightly peppered and sprinkled with a bit of shredded mozzarella cheese, and the toast was gleaming with melting whipped butter. The glass of orange juice looked ice cold; water droplets of condensation taunted him as they dripped slowly off the sides.

"I haven't poisoned them, dear," she quipped, sipping on her own tall glass of OJ, now seated across the table from him.

He was being silly. The war was over now, there was no one left to fear, and certainly not this crackpot old muggle. Also, he hadn't noticed how ravenously hungry and desperately thirsty he had been. He picked up a slice of the egg topped toast, not bothering with the knife and fork she had set out for him and gobbled the entire thing in three or four bites, washing it down with half the glass of juice. He felt the colour return to his face and the energy he needed to function rush back through his body almost immediately. As he caught his breath and prepared to devour the second piece of toast she asked him a question.

"When was the last time you ate?"

When _was _the last time he had eaten? It was only a few hours ago in reality, but it felt like years ago that he and Fred were closing up shop at the end of the night, reminiscing about their mothers cooking together while their grumbling stomachs craved something better than the canned noodles they had planned for the evening. They never did eat those noodles though, because soon after they received word of Harry's return to Hogwarts and they set off together without a second thought about themselves.

"I don't know."

She didn't challenge his answer, she only watched him eat over the top of her glass.

"Was he killed because of who he was?"

George paused, mouth full, and thought of his ancient purebred family. He looked across the table at the mad but kind old bat of a muggle analyzing him with her giant blue eyes.

"No," he answered carefully, looking down at his plate, "He was killed because of who he was protecting."

"Well that's a very noble way to go."

"It doesn't change the fact that he's dead," he retorted bitterly.

"No. You're right, it doesn't," she answered dreamily.

_What a comforting thing to say _he thought to himself sarcastically until he noticed she was staring up at a precariously hung framed photograph high on the cluttered wall. It was a still, non-magical photo, showing two young teenagers, a small girl and a lanky, awkward young boy of no more than 16, arm in arm, faces frozen as they laughed together at some long forgotten joke.

"That was my brother, Floyd. We ran away to New York together when I was 16, and he 17. He was killed for who he was."

George swallowed his last bite uncomfortably, unsure of what to say.

"Would you like anymore eggs?" she asked, snapping back to reality.

"No, but if you have any more juice…?" he asked honestly, as his stomach felt sick from eating so fast, but his parched throat was still sore and raw from his screaming.

She immediately jumped up to refill his glass and had only just settled herself back down at the table when a large drunken man stumbled from a nearby doorway into the kitchen. Sweaty balding, beer belly bulging and reeking of whiskey he leaned heavily on the door frame and blinked his wide bloodshot eyes at George, as though he were trying to imagine him away.

"Who the fuck is this?" he asked in a slurred, harsh American accent.

"Paperboy dear, fell on his bicycle so I let him in to freshen up a bit," she called sing-songily to him.

The man stumbled over to the refrigerator and stuck his head inside and belched before announcing nastily with an array colourful insults directed at his wife that he did not want George in his home. The man then settled himself in the newspaper covered armchair in front of the tiny television, sandwich hanging from his mouth, a fresh bottle of whiskey clutched in his fat hairy hand. But before George could even gather himself to leave loud throaty snores began emanating from the back of the armchair. He looked incredulously between the woman and the back of the snoring armchair.

"Sometimes there are worse things than death for your family to endure. Sometimes a man can return from a battle that was never his to fight in the first place as a different man and that can hurt those who love him much more than death," she told him wisely, before getting up and shuffling past her sleeping husband to rummage around in a gaudily painted cookie jar. She presented him a photograph from her hiding place. This one was also a still picture, although in colour. He recognized her piercing blue eyes, wide with excitement above a laughing smile on her young, beautiful face as she rode the shoulders of a tall, handsome young man with dark smiling eyes, thick brown hair cascading and feathered down to his shoulders, and a short bushy beard broken apart by a beaming white teeth smiling with joy. The two were a part of a massive crowd of similar looking people, all adorned with heavy rock necklaces, twine bracelets and long free flowing hair walking intentionally down a crowded city street, streaming by cars and business men by the hundreds.

As the woman glanced from the armchair to the photograph he understood. The happy, carefree man in the photographs was unrecognizable from the reeking, overweight, nasty and miserable drunk passed out next to them.

"Your brother had the gift of fighting and dying for something he believed in. He died knowing he left the world a slightly better place during his time, and that is a gift that very few of us get. John was forced to fight for a cause he didn't believe in, and it turned him into a man didn't ever think he could become. The John that came home to me, and his worried mother, was not the John that either of us had known and loved.

"Why don't you leave him?"

"For nearly 30 years I lay my head to rest on my pillow every night thinking '_tomorrow will be the day I finally move on,' _but every morning I wake up thinking, '_today will be the day he'll finally come back to me.'_ I wasted a lifetime waiting for someone to return who never would, instead of moving on and accepting that the happy memories with the people I lost were the only ones I'd ever have with them. I should have learned to cherish those memories and I should've learned to be happy that they ever happened, instead of sad and unaccepting that they were over. Because I never grieved for a man who had truly died on the battlefield I missed the chance to create new happy memories and I missed the chance to enjoy my life after he left it."

She sat in silence, dreamily thumbing through photographs she did not share while her husband snored and snorted over the sound of the television until George finally finished his second glass of orange juice.

"Come," she jumped up suddenly from her seat, tripping on a wicker basket full of papers on the ground, "I want to show you something." He was apprehensive but hopeful that she would let him leave to be on his own again after she showed him whatever it was, so he followed her towards the back of the house, stumbling over piles of paper and baskets of craft supplies. She led him through a flimsy slatted door hanging off its hinges into the back garden.

"Whoa." The sight left him otherwise speechless. An enormous, life sized sculpture of a horse made entirely of smooth, rounded gray driftwood stood in the grassy garden. George walked closer to get a better look at the magnificent object. It was amazingly life like in its structure, it stood with the dignity of a stallion, muscles and long graceful legs represented beautifully with the natural curves of ocean polished wood, its hooves and nose carved so intricately and realistically that one might mistake it at a distance for a true horse grazing in the seaside grass. He circled the art piece, lost in his awe.

"I was going to make her a foal, before you showed up."

Guilt overcame him at this connection and his face reddened with embarrassment and shame.

"I'm sorry."

"I'll tell you what, you can come back here whenever you like for tea and scones, as long as you've repaid me what you've broken."

"Of course, Mrs…"

"You may call me Bronwyn."

"Bronwyn. I'll start right away," he stammered, looking around the garden at more of her artwork to avoid her eyes.

She walked slowly around the horse and stopped in front of its unmoving head and stroked its wooden face as though it were real.

"Why don't you leave him now?" he asked, thinking about what she had said in the kitchen. If she understood what she was doing to herself, why didn't she leave? Why didn't she move on now, all these years later?

She sighed and continued to stroke the horse's nose.

"I'm an old woman now…"

"You aren't that old," he interrupted, thinking of his own mother.

"I'm an old woman now, in every sense, and I've hurt every person who still cared about me because I couldn't accept what had happened to Floyd and John. I think I stay here because I deserve to watch someone I love deteriorate in front of me, like they all watched me."

"But that isn't fair."

"Life isn't fair, dear. None of us were created for a life full of triumph and free of tragedy. The point of life is to make the best of it, despite the unfairness it throws at you."

"But you know he won't change back now!" he argued, upset by her reasoning.

"Oh, I know. He'll die right there in that armchair, he will, and I'll be right there next to him, ready to finally depart this life, both the good times and the bad times." She sighed and looked out into the expansive, endless twinkling ocean. "But you couldn't find a more beautiful and lonely place to live and die, could you?"

As George walked back to his family early that afternoon, hands shoved deep in his pockets, head lowered in silent thought he replayed her morbid words again and again in his mind, which was less painful that replaying the vision of Percy, blurry eyed and screaming that Fred had been killed, jets of light and flying debris exploding over his head as he clutched the front of his robes, sobbing and desperately begging his forgiveness.

When he approached the door of shell cottage, unsure of what to expect inside, he heard muffled but distinct voices drifting from inside. The voices of his mother and father.

"I had prepared myself. I really thought I had Arthur. But in all my nightmares I never expected the twins to be separated. I… I thought if something happened to them it would be both of them. How stupid is that?"

"I know, Molls. None of us expected this. But at the very least, it didn't happen to both of them. We still have George. Thank God we still have George."  
"Do we though? What if he's never himself again? What if he's never okay? We… we should have raised them to be more independent; we should've given them separate bedrooms, the chance to grow separate identities. This is all my fault."

"There are no two boys who ever walked this earth who had happier childhoods Molly, and that's all thanks to you. We gave Fred everything we could, and I know he loved and appreciated you for it."

"We'll never mix up their names again… I'll… I'll never see my baby grow old. They were our twins Arthur," her voice cracked, "Wasn't it cruel enough that we never got to watch Margarie grow up, now we had to watch our twins that made it grow into amazing young men, only to have one ripped away from us? Where is the justice in that?"

George stopped dead in his tracks, hand on the doorknob, listening to his mother sob. Margarie? Who was Margarie? Our twins that made it? He opened the door, not wanting to hear anymore.

His mother was nestled in his father's arms on the couch, which they had turned to face the door he had entered through. A mug was clutched in her hands, her face still filthy and bloody, her eyes bloodshot although they had finally run out of tears to shed for her sons. His father held onto her protectively, a gash unattended above his silently crying eyes. His father never cried. They abruptly stopped talking at his entrance and his mother leapt to her feet, sloshing the contents of the mug on the floor. She seemed ready to run up and hug him, or say something reassuring, but she restrained herself and looked up at him with wide, sad eyes.

"George, I made you some hot chocolate!" she told him as enthusiastically as she could muster with a pathetic glance at the half empty mug. "But it must be cold now, I'll make you another," she admitted sadly, turning towards the kitchen, avoiding his eyes.

Affection and appreciation for his mother surged through him. His parents had waited up for him, probably terrified that he had actually thrown himself off one of the cliffs. George needed to remind himself that he was not the only one who had lost Fred.

"No Mum, it's alright," he told her, taking the mug from her hands and setting it down on a nearby table and folding her into a tight hug. She let out a dry sob on his chest. She was so relieved that he was back.

"Oh my Georgie."

If George really had had another sibling that he didn't know about who had died without any of his sibling's knowledge, this was not the time to ask about her. His mother was dealing with one loss and did not need to relive another.

"Where is everyone?" he asked, noting the empty house behind him.

"Ron went back to be with Harry and Hermione and every else went up to bed," she answered, letting go and dabbing her eyes. His father stood up and hugged him next, thankful that he had returned.

"Let me make you something to eat, dear."

"It's alright, I ate already." His parents both shot him suspicious looks, and he realized his mistake.

"I ate at a muggle diner in the village. I had some money in my back pocket. I'm sorry, I just needed to be alone for a little bit."

His father continued to look suspiciously at him, but asked no further questions for the sake of his wife.

He allowed his mother to clean up his face and hands and fish him out a new t-shirt and too short pants of Bill's, then tuck him in like a child on the couch in the living room, as all the other rooms were already packed. George didn't entirely mind the treatment, though he convinced himself on the surface that he was allowing it for his mother's benefit. But deep down it felt good to pretend he was still at an age when nothing really mattered, and sadness was a broken toy or a swift hit on the knuckles with a wooden spoon. It also gave him a chance to imagine what it would have been like if he were a child, having his mother clean him and tuck him in without a twin brother in the next bed over, competing for her attention and helping him drive her nuts with questions and requests for bedtime stories. As he rolled over and drew the blanket over himself he was thankful that he didn't have to grow up without that.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

The older George now sat on the same beach he had now three times tried to destroy, staring at the crater he had blasted away, now desperately missing someone else, someone he had already accepted as gone from his life, until she showed up in his store and reminding him of what he was missing.

His thoughts went back to his mother tucking him in that day, and how he had asked, "Mum, do you mind if we stay here a few days?" thinking of his promise to Bronwyn. It reminded him how he and Fred would ask their mother endless questions about Hogwarts, magic, girls, and what was illegal or not as she tucked them in every night until she finally threw up her hands, kissed them each goodnight once and for all and left them to excitedly whisper in the dark and discuss the answers they had managed to get that night. But this time there was only one of them, and only one question. And she just simply answered yes and explained that the whole family needed to stay at Shell Cottage for a while as the much larger Burrow was being used as temporary housing for evacuated students, as this time there was no one to analyze the answer with after she had left the room.

George had spent the next few days of the visit alone, distracting himself with fulfilling his promise to Bronwyn. He knew he could easily summon all the driftwood from the nearest 50 beaches and have it coming rushing at him in neat little pile at his feet in an instant, or he could comb the beaches using his old Cleansweep for a bird's eye's view, but he didn't feel that was right. He felt like he owed it to her to work as she had, so from breakfast till dusk he walked the sandy beaches, wandless, collecting wood from the receding tides, determined not to return to the old woman's house until he had repaid his debt with interest.

He did not mind the hard work, he was thankful for the distraction from the racing thoughts and crushing loneliness. He knew the funerals of his friends~ and his brother would be starting soon, now that everything was settling down after the chaos, but it wasn't something he wanted to think about, or even imagine just yet. He had fun busying his mind picking up different bits of wood, imagining the twistier, wilder pieces as part of a long tail blowing in the ocean breeze, and the sharper, stronger pieces as part of a defined jawline of a tough young foal waiting to grow big and strong so he could ride into some great medieval battle.

After four days of awkwardly silent family dinners with visitors apparating in and out, bringing news of the ministry, friends and foes, and four days of long walks and scouring small hidden beaches and lonely alcoves in rocky cliffs, George was finally ready to report back to Bronwyn. He collected all the wood he'd been piling up into two large potato bags and lugged them up the rocky cliffs to the small blue shack overlooking the ocean. As he approached the door he heard shouting.

"There's crap in my bed, there's crap in my chair, there's crap everywhere Bronwyn! I can't get up to piss without falling over the massive pile of crap that is my house!"

"This is my parents' house, and you are just as capable of cleaning up as I am. And it's not my stuff you're tripping over, it's the whiskey you're killing yourself with, it is."

"You're the flipping wife! It's your job to make sure we don't live in squalor!"

There was a pause. Bronwyn's voice came, quietly, spitting, venomous.

"If you could hear yourself now…"

An exasperated, obnoxious sigh came from her husband.

"We all grew out of being stupid, useless hippies, Bron, everyone except you. It's beyond time for you to grow the fuck up and clean your damn house. It's a pigsty in here."

"And you're just a pig."

"Yeah, and you're just a bitch."

George dropped the bags at this and threw open the front door. Both inhabitants jumped and looked at him, wide eyed and surprised. George froze, unsure of what exactly he had been thinking and what his plan was. The man looked at him incredulously, clearly not recognizing him from earlier that week.

"And who the hell are you?" he asked angrily, much more sober than before."

"I uh…" he stammered, his wand hand twitching nervously.

"He's that art student I was telling you about, dear, he's helping me with my sculptures out back."

Her husband looked confused, but didn't want to admit to forgetting something his wife had supposedly told him about, so he just grumbled something indistinct about not paying for anything before shuffling back towards the back bedroom, kicking over a small pile of boxes in the way.

Bronwyn looked back at him with excitement, as though nothing had happened and no lie had been told.

"I knew you'd come back. Well, have you brought the wood?"

George nodded in embarrassment of intruding and presented his bags.

"My my, you've really out done yourself, haven't you? Come on then."

As George reminisced about that day he realized he had made a friend since the war. He never really thought about her that way, but he supposed friend was the only appropriate label for her. However, unlike the friends he had lost or Angelina's new friends, Bronwyn was not a subject he had ever learned to discuss in conversation like he had with Fred, and he knew he would never be able to.

They had spent the better part of five days creating the sculptures together. As they worked they would talk and she would tell stories and at lunch and dinner time she would teach him how to cook what she was making so it wasn't so difficult to eat alone anymore. She told him stories that distracted him from the burning grief and made him laugh like he didn't think would be possible after what had happened. As they worked in the early summer sun, not with permanent sticking charms, but with wood glue and wire and thousands of tiny nails, all manually hammered in with miniature rubber mallets, she told George fascinating stories about the muggle world that not only occupied his grieving mind, but gave him validation for the cause-and the people that he and his family had risked their lives to protect. As she told him about fighting for rights across the pond in her world that he had never even imagined needed fighting for, he could even begin to feel some pride on behalf of Fred, instead of just anger and sadness. As George listened and learned he determined that she would've done the same as he and Fred and the rest of the Weasleys if she were a witch. She would've fought and happily died at the hands of a deatheater, as long as she managed to take out a few before she went. She would've loved to have died with a purpose, as she put it, just like so many talented and brave witches and wizards had only a few days before.

He remembered how she had spent hours talking, telling stories and sharing wisdom before she seemed finally ready to talk about her brother. She did not discuss how he had died, but George could tell by her voice that it had been gruesome and merciless, but she instead talked about who he was and what he had done. She made it known that Floyd once mattered, and it didn't matter how few people knew of him or appreciated him because he mattered to his little sister. Even though he hadn't had the gift of dying peacefully or meaningfully he had still left the Earth a better place for those he had loved, simply by loving them while he was alive. George liked the way she spoke about her brother.

Bronwyn finally asked about Fred, on the third day, by asking what he and George did for a living. George had found it surprisingly easy to say his name, as he hadn't said it since he admitted to himself that he had died that morning at shell cottage. He told her about the joke shop, to the extent that he could, and the flat above it, and he finally admitted how terrified he was to return and face it alone.

"Because returning to what used to be your normal life and picking up the pieces of his would mean you've accepted that he's gone, and that the moving on process must begin?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

"It will be bitter, and it will hurt like nothing you've ever experienced before, but unless you want to turn out like me, as someone who never moved on, as someone who was too weak to, it must be done. It will take time, but eventually you will be okay, and the day you realize how much love you still have to give is the day you'll finally realize you're okay."

At the end of the fifth day they stepped back to admire their finished work. George had collected so much wood that they were able to make two sculptures. Two young colts, beautiful and graceful even on their long awkward legs, dancing around their mother, frolicking together in the sea grass, forever immortalized in their innocent joy.

The soft, mystic knowing voice of Bronwyn broke the silence.

"Twins. An anomaly in horses, but a miracle of life nonetheless."

They stood together in silence for a few minutes more, admiring and appreciating their hard work.

"I know you go home tomorrow George, but if you can, why don't you come back sometime next week, we can work on another project, if you like."

He smiled to himself. He had something to look forward to now after the funeral. There was something in the future that he didn't dread. He felt refreshed, he felt like the coming weeks would be bearable now.

"Yeah, that sounds great, thank you."

"I used to think that I wouldn't be like Floyd, that I wouldn't leave this Earth any better than it had been when I entered it, but now I think maybe I will… if I've helped you at all. I think maybe that would make it all worth it… all the hanging on."

"You have… helped me I mean," and he meant it. He really owed his sanity in the days since his brother had died to Bronwyn. He had been wishing there was some way he could repay her, but now he knew that he had. She had been just as lonely as he was.

"Would you like to name them?" she asked, nodding at the sculptures. He looked at the two young colts, frozen in time as they played and grew together, happy and carefree in their youth.

"Gred and Forge," he answered quietly with a sad smile.

"Those are good names."

George stood up and walked around the crater he had created in his anger. The tide was low now; he knew this scar in the beach would be healed by this time tomorrow. Not like the last time he had destroyed this place. Those scars took many months to heal, and he returned every night just to make sure they were still healing. Every day he returned to this little private beach that he loved so much not only to get away, but to remind himself of the anger he had felt that day and the damage it could cause if he let it overtake him.

The 23 year old George remembered how his younger self had returned from the Burrow to this very stretch of beach to fulfill his second promise to Bronwyn. He remembered climbing the rocky path up to her house, excited instead of wary and exhausted. He walked up to the little blue shack and knocked on the rickety slatted door. But no one answered. He stepped back from the doorway and noticed for the first time the eerie silence. The house was not singing with the breeze; there was no music that day. He circled around the house, beginning to feel sick with worry. He knocked on the back door, and again had no answer. He pressed his ear to the thin door and heard shuffling coming from within, so let himself inside.

The house was more of a mess than it had ever been. Rotting food was left on tables and dirty dishes were piled in the sink so high that they blocked off the windows. The vines wilted from their hangings and their dead leaves littered the grime covered floor. The house smelled of garbage rather than of plant life and oil paint. Bronwyn's husband was lying in a heap of trash and sick in his armchair, barely coherent and completely incapable of focusing on the intruder in his home.

"Where's Bronwyn?" he asked aggressively, his sense of dread escalating at the sight. Only a childish whimper escaped from John's mouth. George walked up to the sad blundering excuse for a man, wand raised in tense anger and fear.

"Where is she?" he demanded, drawing his face and want inches from the whimpering drunk. He wrinkled his nose in disgust at the smell, but as he drew nearer he notice a large dip in the man's skill, as though a portion had been removed. It was surrounded by an array of deep surgical scars and tiny shrapnel scars. He withdrew his wand. Suddenly he understood. This man could have been Fred, had he survived. This man had been blown apart on the battlefield through no fault of his own and the methods used to save his life had revived his body but left him without the pieces of his mind that made him who he was in that smiling photograph. He understood now why she stayed so long, why she had kept her blind hope for so many years. Bronwyn was right; there were much worse things than death for a family and a person to endure.

"Where is she?" he asked again, softer this time.

"G…gone."

Cold dread ran through his veins and the color drained from his face and his hands began to tremble with fear at the word the man had uttered. 'Gone.'

"What do you mean, 'gone'?" he asked, panic rising in his voice, but it was too late, the old man had slipped into unconsciousness again, and George was left to look around the small empty house in desperation.

He burst through the front door. She had no neighbors, no one he could beg for information about what had happened to her. All that he knew was that it couldn't be true. She couldn't be dead.

He knew there was a muggle village to the North of her home, so he jogged towards it. Soon he came across a lopsided mobile home stuck haphazardly in the sand, lights flickering inside. He bounded up the rickety steps and pounded furiously on the door.

A heavy young woman around his age, baby rested on her hip, grease splattered up her dirty blouse answered the door with a scowl.

"Who the hell are you?"

"The old woman who lives in the blue house down the road, by the ocean, do you know where she is?"

"D'you mean Ms. Bronwyn, the kooky hippie lady?"

Seething with anger but desperate for an answer, he nodded frantically.

"Had a heart attack, she did. Saw the ambulances me self just the other day."

Cold fear wiped the remaining color from his face. His eyes bugged insanely, darting between the woman's uncaring eyes, trying to detect some lie in her words.

"Is… is she okay?"

"Is she okay? You know this is like, her third bloody heart attack in two years, right? We all knew she was living on borrowed time. No mate, she ain't okay, she finally went to meet her maker, poor thing."

It felt as though the blood had stopped pumping through his body and his stomach as though it were full of lead. The girl prattled on nonsensically as he struggled to comprehend what she had said.

"It's a shame it wasn't that horrid husband of hers, don't'cha think? He's always coming round to the pub where I work and making messes and starting fights. The whole bloody town hates the Yankee tosser, never understood why she was with him. You her nephew or something? 'Fraid she probably hasn't left you too much, 'less she's been hoarding something we all don't know about. Used to be a myth back in primary school…"

George turned and left her shouting after him.

"No need to be so rude!"

He began to jog back towards Bronwyn's house. He was too shocked to be angry or sad just yet. He wished desperately that the girl had been wrong, but deep down he knew that Bronwyn wasn't okay. He made his way down to the family of horses they had built together, just to remind himself that she was real. The wooden sculptures still stood, stunning against the landscape. There was something new at the base, below where one of the bucking colts raised its hooves in play at the other.

George knelt down to get closer look. It was a rock, a lumpy imperfect rock she must have collected from the cliffs. It was hand painted with intricate purple flowers and vines, with an inscription meticulously hand carved by loving, nonmagical hands.

"Gred and Forge, together through life and beyond."

His eyes welled up at the sight. He missed Fred so much. And now the one woman helping him through it all had just died. How could she be dead? Just like that? Fine one day and the next… just gone? She was gone as fast as she had been there. Why?

Neither of them deserved that, and George sure as hell didn't deserve to be so alone. He let out a cry of despair and scrambled to his feet, unable to stand the sight of the memorial anymore. Once again he didn't know what to do with himself as the panicked breathing began and the sweat began to pour down his forehead. He held his throbbing head in his hands, willing himself not to explode with emotion. He took off down the rocky cliff to the small, private beach, adrenaline and energy pumping through his body as fast as the panic and the anger. He jumped down into the sand, knees stinging in the impact, wand hand trembling with his anger.

Fred was gone, Bronwyn was gone. They were both such great people who didn't deserve what had happened to them. And he didn't deserve to be this alone. But there he was, sitting on this lonely beach all by himself again, no hope of a friend pulling him out of his misery this time. He was completely distraught.

He screamed. He screamed so the heavens would know of his anger and despair, so the heavens would know what they had done to him. All the anger he'd been bottling up, all the grief he held back at the funeral pulsed through him and escaped through his screams. Finally he couldn't stand it any longer and he ripped his wand form his waist band. It trembled with its owner's anger.

"REDUCTO!" he screamed with all his might, pointing the wand at the receding waves. The water went shooting fifty feet in the air and came back down to Earth like hot, angry rain, salty water mixing with the tears that streamed down his face.

"REDUCTO! REDUCTO! REDUCTO!"

More blasts shot from the end of his wand while he screamed the incantations with the intensity of his grief and anger. The walls of water and sand rising from each blast were shot through and exploded by more hexes.

"REDUCTO, REDUCTO, REDUCTO, REDUCTO, REDUCTO!"

He screamed the very hex that killed his brother.

He turned his wand to the dry sand around him, blasting it around him in massive, angry waves of gritty sand.

"REDUCTO, REDUCTO!"

It stung his skin and eyes, but he did not care. He shot off more devastating blasts with the blind violence of a child having a tantrum at the landscape around him. He only wanted to destroy with this beach like his life had been destroyed. He aimed at the jutting rocky cliff and blasted it apart, not bothering to dodge the huge chucks of rocks that exploded back at him.

"REDUCTO!"

He stood strong in the wave of rock and sand flying at him, daring one to hit him like it did Fred. He wanted one to hit him. They shot around him in a stinging blur until a sharp pain and a sickening crack knocked folded him in half and knocked him from his angry trance.

He doubled over in pain, dropping his wand in the sand by his feet. The quaffle sized rock that had hit him lay beneath him, splattered with the blood that was dripping from the tiny stinging cuts on his face from the whipping sand. The rock that had taken him down had hit him in the side of the chest and had cracked several of his ribs, he could feel them shifting inside him. Pained blackened his eyes and left his head ringing. He placed a hand on the ground to steady himself and moaned with pain and grief between his sobs. He grunted and heaved and struggled to stand upright, clutching his ribs and nearly doubled over in searing pain. Through double vision he took in the destruction around him, the destruction he had caused. The beach looked like a warzone, littered with blast craters, fallen rock, and muddy puddles throughout the sandy plane. He looked up at the rocky cliff ahead of him, at a large crack widened significantly by the hexes he had shouted in a blind rage. The vegetation in front of it had been obliterated and now a tiny, ramshackle shed perched precariously high up in the opening was visible. A lone wind chime sang hauntingly in the breeze, like sirens calling him towards it.

He took a step towards the shelter, groaning in agony, but knowing he deserved every sharp stab at his ribs as he crawled up the winding, rickety staircase. He finally reached the shack, hardly able to extend an arm to open the dilapidated door's handle. When he finally managed to grasp it it came crashing down off its rusted hinges at him.

"Dammit."

George threw it aside and crawled inside onto the dirty floor, collapsing and rolling onto his back, gasping for breath, each inhale bringing unbearably agony to his chest. He stared up at the ceiling which was lined with cobwebs and invading plant life. Four ancient kayaks hung from the ceiling from deteriorating rope above him. To his right was a pile of moldy life jackets and deflated water toys covered in mothballs. The cabin stunk of mildew, rat droppings, and abandonment.

He curled up on his side in the fetal position, sobbing alone on the hard, dirty floor. He cried for himself now, as he was the one left behind with all this grief and guilt to bear alone. How was he to go on living he didn't know, how he was supposed to live alone, much less be happy alone was a mystery to him. He felt broken, inside and out. The universe had snapped him in two and ripped him apart by taking away his brother.

He missed Fred every second of everyday. There wasn't a moment of any day in the week and a half since he had died that he didn't need to remind himself that the twin that had been by his side for twenty years wasn't there anymore, and that he wasn't there to joke with or talk to or plan with. And he never would be again. Fred had wanted to fight, but he hadn't wanted to die. No one did at twenty. Except George now.

Twenty years, one month and one day. That was all the world got of Fred Weasley, and all Fred Weasley got in the world. It wasn't right. He… they together had so much left to give, so much more to do and to see and to feel and hear… he had so much more to be.

Now George cried for Fred, curled up in the shack. He cried until the sun set on another day without his brother, and he cried until he had run out of tears and he was only left to sob through the night for his friends, his family and himself.

The George who had put that night behind him long ago stood up from the shore, determined to accept Angelina as another person in his life who had left him, just like Bronwyn and Fred, and he turned with a crack and apparated back home to Diagon Alley.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Angelina sat on a bench with an enormous copy of the Daily Prophet spread as large as it could go in front of her face, upside down. She was peering over the Quidditch section at The Little Tea Room, jumping to see who it was every time she heard the bells of the door swinging open. She had been there since dawn broke, an hour before the store opened. She watched two employees she had never seen before open up the shop and bake the cakes and muffins of the day, all without an appearance of her mother. Customers filed in and out all morning with her tea and pastries, but still no sign of her.

She could scarcely imagine her mother's reaction if she suddenly showed up in the tea house she had helped run since the age of five and had abandoned at the age of 20. But she needed to visit her old childhood home again to see her father, no matter how painful it would be.

She remembered the long hours of her childhood and her summers she had spent in the shop. When she was too young help customers she spend her days riding her toy broomstick around the shop or colouring in a squishy booth near the counter by herself. When she was older she spent her mornings baking breads and pastries and brewing tea, and as soon as she learned to count she was behind the register, serving a variety of customers, including the Minister of Magic himself, who was a huge fan of her pumpkin spiced tea in fall. Whenever her mother gave her time to herself when the business was slow she spent the lonely afternoon hours wandering the streets of Diagon Alley, exploring the shops and getting to know all the local business owners. Her mother, against her and her father's wishes had even opted to keep her home from Hogwarts an extra year so she could continue to learn and work with her at the family business as long as possible, and so she began her first year at age twelve instead of eleven.

Angelina didn't mind her childhood too terribly much, but she had always thought it would've been a lot less lonely with a brother or sister. She spent her early years desperately wishing that she had a twin sister. She used to have dreams that an identical twin sister would wander into the Tea Room one day, citing some mix-up at St. Mungo's on their birthdate or an adoption gone wrong as the reason for their separation, but declaring now that she was back for good to be with Angelina. Then they could switch places and fool their parents, and they would each only work half the time at the store and they would spent their time off playing pranks on the familiar residents of Diagon Alley, making them see double and switching names and outfits. They would be the best at tag and hide and go seek when they played with the younger MacMillan boys form the apothecary. Then at night they would whisper secrets together and play games while their parents fought below their bedroom. And then they would face the scary prospect of Hogwarts together, and they would both be sorted into Ravenclaw, just like their parents. That's probably why she was so drawn to the identical Weasley boys when she finally did get to Hogwarts. It was why she and Alicia deemed themselves honorary twins within the first month of school. They were so jealous of the happy, clever, identical Weasley twins. They were everything Angelina had ever wanted.

She had been rehearsing what to say to the employees in her head and working up the courage to finally walk inside for the better part of an hour when the newspaper she was hiding behind was suddenly ripped out of her hands by a massive dark hand.

"Angelina darling! I knew that was you back 'dare! Whad're you doing hidin' out 'ere all by yourself?" The smiling, massive dark face of Tashina, the overtly joyful Jamaican squib who had worked at The Little Tea Room since the day it opened in 1976 as the first employee of the revitalized business was beaming down at her. Tashina seemed to grow larger and happier with each passing year, probably due to a diet of almost entirely baked goods. She had been a daft but joyful presence in Angelina's life since the day she was born.

"Well come on in darlin'! It's been 'dree years, no need to wait any longer! Mr. Johnson'll be so pleased; we've all missed you down 'ere in 'da The Room!"

Her giant paws grabbed at Angelina's shoulders, hoisting her to her feet, yelling her happy greeting so loudly that passing pedestrians turned to stare, completely outing her from her hiding spot. Her face grew warm at the attention and soon she heard whispered remarks between onlookers about her possible identity as a Pride of Portree chaser. As though she noticed this and wanted to make her as uncomfortable as possible, Tashina exclaimed,

"Been listening to your matches on 'da radio in the Room, we all 'ave. Mighty proud of you, we all are, no matter where you been."

Guilt surged through her and she was being ushered into the shop. She should have sent an owl to Tashina at some point. She should have asked if she was able to come out of hiding, she should have at least asked if she was alright. But she hadn't. She'd messed up badly and scorned everyone she loved by leaving without a goodbye and each and every day that went by only made it worse. And then suddenly it had been three years since she'd spoken or written a word to a single person she once knew. She didn't deserve to have all of the people that loved her, and now after all this time and a hastily scribbled note written in the dead of night, she definitely did not deserve their forgiveness.

Tashina ushered her inside and sat her down in the very booth she had spent so many hours colouring and reading in in her youth. Tashina put her hands of her massive hips and beamed down at the small and guilty looking Angelina.

"Oh you've gotten so thin child! Lemme fetch you some blueberry muffins!"

The way her stomach was doing flip-flops she knew she wouldn't be able to stomach a thing, even Tashina's muffins.

"No thanks, I'm alright."

Tashina frowned for a moment before smiling again.

"Just some tea then?"

"Alright," she obliged her guiltily, throwing nervous glances at the door of the kitchen which concealed a spiral staircase that led up to her parents' flat.

"Your mum's in Hogsmeade meetin' with a supplier, she'll be back in an 'our or so. Your pop's probably asleep upstairs, though I think it's probably best if you wait for 'er first."

She gulped; dread dropping in her gut like an anchor.

"Right, okay." One hour. She would have to face her mum in one hour. Cold shivers ran through her. She glanced at the door of the shop, considering making a mad break for it while Tashina put on her red apron and prepared her tea. Her feet turned subconsciously towards the door, and she squared her shoulders, focusing on the target, her body tensing like it did before taking off at the pitch. Tashina's massive hand came down on her shoulders like a ton of bricks as quickly as her thoughts of fleeing had come and gone. She wrapped her fingers around her small shoulder in a crushing vice.

"Weren't thinking of runnin' out again were ya? You 'ad to know I wouldn't let you get away with that again sweet'art." She reached over her shoulder and placed a steaming cup of hot tea and a fresh blueberry muffin on a napkin in front of her.

"That'll be four sickles, twelve knuts," she demanded coldly.

"I uh…" she flustered, too caught off guard to be hurt, she began fumbling in her robes for her money pouch.

Tashina threw back her head and let out a deep, throaty uproarious laugh and clapped her on the shoulder with amazing force.

"You haven't been gone that long dear. I've just sent an owl to your other letting 'er know you're 'ere." She waddled back behind the counter, still chuckling to herself.

Angelina's stomach dropped and she clutched both sides of the tea cup, trying to calm her nauseous stomach. She looked around the shop. Not much had changed in the time she had been gone. The dining area was still a mixture of sickly pink, purple and red. Round tables and booths lined the uneven walls. Round cages with singing lovebirds still hung from the ceiling, although now they appeared to be the shockingly rainbow birds of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. Businessmen and ministry workers sipped on their teacups, faces buried in newspapers, and kids and families doing their school shopping munched on cakes and pastries while talking excitedly about the day's activities to come. The front counter still had a massive glass display case full of a variety of baked goods, and huge, ancient, and intricately carved metal vats behind the unfamiliar workers held the day's selections of teas and coffees. It felt like she had stepped into a time capsule of her former life.

She sat for what felt like hours worrying about her mother's impending appearance alone in her childhood booth, twirling her untouched cup of tea on the table and listening to Tashina's booming laugh and boisterous voice as she served customers.

"Mr. Weasley! I sure did miss you yesterday morning!"

Angelina whipped around so fast she cricked her neck and spilled nearly all of her tea.

"'Ello 'Shina. I'm so sorry I didn't get to see your beautiful face yesterday morning as well."

Tashina glowed red with pride at the flattery and curtsied jokingly in her massive apron. She watched as George tipped an imaginary hat in her direction, reducing Tashina to a fit of unnaturally deep girlish giggles. She began brewing a mix of tea and bagging up a selection of cakes without asking for his order while he sprinkled a generous helping of silver coins into the tip jar.

"Oh you spoil an old maid rotten, Mr. Weasley," she told him, beaming an admiring smile up at him.

"I'd spoil any beautiful woman who brings me my caffeine and sugar in the morning."

Angelina shrunk down into her booth as he turned to leave. He was the last thing she needed right now. She was already feeling enough guilt that she was threatening to explode. While she was preparing to explain her absence to her family she didn't need to be looking into the face of the real reason she ran. But it was too late; his eyes had already swept the store and landed on her tall dark frame that she was unable to hide.

"Ang?"

More dread than she thought possible now dropped like lead in her already churning stomach as he grabbed his tea and food and started towards her. They had not spoken since their night spent together at the beach and her abrupt disapperation the previous morning.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, sliding into the booth across from her.

"Waiting for my mum."

He took a sip from his cup and asked gently, "You haven't written or seen her in three years either, have you?"

So deeply ashamed that she could not meet his eyes she croaked out a barely audible, "No."

Before either of them could continue the massive shadow of Tashina came gliding towards them.

"I didn't know you two knew each other!" she exclaimed, beaming a mischievous smile at the both of them. She clapped a massive paw on George's thin shoulder, flour puffing up from the impact into his face and beard. She ignored his wince at her heavy hand and winked obviously at Angelina, mouthing in full view of both of them, "Handsome, isn't he?"

George looked back at Angelina, eyes wide with amusement, a look of mocking agreement on his face. He smiled slyly at her, joyfully and silently daring her to contradict the statement. She rolled her eyes at him and Tashina continued aloud.

"Mr. Weasley's me favorite customer these days, always 'ere 'erry morning with a compliment and tip. 'Erry day 'cept yesterday as a matter of fact."

Angelina could swear she could see the gears turning in her head behind her eyes as she worked out the connection in her head. Unfortunately discretion was not her strong suit. She smiled broadly, looking back and forth between them and none too quietly asked, "I wonder where 'e was."

George struggled to suppress a pleased grin and Angelina shot him a warning glare just as a cold, bitter voice sent shivers down both their spines.

"You have a lot of nerve showing up here."

The biting voice of her mother paralyzed her in her seat and made her blood run cold. She closed her eyes as her heels clicked closer ominously behind her. Tashina stepped out of her way and Mrs. Johnson rounded the tables to face her daughter. George slunk down, trying to make himself invisible in the booth he was cornered in, but Mrs. Johnson only had her sharp eyes set on her daughter, and they were narrowed in anger.

"Three years!" She looked around at the staring customers and lowered her voice to a spitting whisper, "three bloody years, not one owl, nothing. Not even for your father!"

"He wouldn't…" she began.

"He _would._ I'd send you packing out the door right now if it weren't for him, since you've clearly made your choice…"

"No you wouldn't," interjected Tashina.

Mrs. Johnson closed her eyes in frustration. "Tashina…" she spit, exasperated and irritated.

The tall, thin, foreboding woman continued to stare venomously at her meekly shrinking daughter. Suddenly she noticed the still-trying-to-make-himself-invisible George.

"Who's this then? Run off and get married and had a couple kids without letting us know too? Thought we could just find out in the prophet again?" she widened her eyes manically, turning back to Angelina.

She stood up and faced her mother. They were precisely the same height, with identical sharp cheekbones and slanted eyes. Mrs. Johnson had her hair cut short and straightened, sharply framing her severe face and pursed thin lips. At a glance they were nearly identical but for age, but at a closer look one could see the softness in Angelina's lighter eyes and larger lips and long thick hair that did not exist in her mother. She spoke without the severity and accusation of her parent.

"I'm here to see Dad, but if I'm not welcome…"

Mrs. Johnson stepped toward threateningly, stretching her thin body to preside over her daughter like she was a little girl. The corners of her mouth twitched in anger.

"Welcome, _welcome_?" she hissed, "You forfeited your welcome the minute you _fucked off _to God-knows-where in the middle of the night."

"Ms. J, don't say what you don't mean. I 'ear you playin' that radio in your office, and we all know you 'ate sports."

Mrs. Johnson shook her hand in dismissal, not taking her eyes from her daughters, wagging a warning finger past her at the interrupting and brash Tashina. Eyes still narrow she continued in a slow, venomous angry whisper.

"I'll let you see him for his sake, not yours. Then we'll have a long discussion afterwards about your future in this family."

"I'm not eight anymore Mum, you can stop speaking to me like an employee now."

Mrs. Johnson opened her mouth to say more, finger raised so it practically touched her daughter's nose, but she stopped herself and turned sharply on her heel and walked briskly and importantly back behind the counter and through the swinging double doors.

"Bring the bloody husband, why don't you?" she called nastily as she strutted away.

Tashina gave Angelina a sympathetic look before returning to the register to serve a customer.

Angelina, now steaming with anger turned her attention to George, who was attempting to become one with the bench cushions, sipping on his tea, pinky raised in deliberate nonchalance.

"You," she seethed, chest heaving manically. He jumped and looked pointlessly behind him.

"You better make sure I don't transfigure her into the cockroach she is just so I can stomp on her stupid face."

He smiled despite the situation. She sounded like she was ranting about Umbridge as she helped him and Fred plan their exiting hijinks again.

"Now that's the Angie I hrmph."

She grabbed him by the scruff of his robes and pulled him after her.

"But my food…" he protested, stomping after her unnaturally strong pull. Wordlessly she lavished her wand behind her and vanished what remained of his breakfast.

"Well I was going to eat that, but no matter I suppo…argh." The swinging doors of the kitchen smacked him squarely in the face as she yanked him through them. She released him with so much force in the bakery that he stumbled on his feet, but he emerged with a smile. He breathed deeply, taking in the intoxicating smell of the baking cakes, breads, and pastries with an expression of pure pleasure on his face. Angelina ignored him as she smoothed the front of her robes and adjusted her braids. She looked up to see him craning his neck in every direction, sniffing the air with a look of pure ecstasy on his face. She punched him sharply in the chest to bring him back to her reality.

"Umph, are you sure you want me to…?"

She shot him a glare so deadly that it shut him up immediately. The new reserved, guilty, meek Angelina was gone, and her old vivacious strong willed side had rushed back to her during the meeting with her mother. The Angelina he knew and feared and admired was back, even if only for a moment. She looked at him with the same no-nonsense-we've-got-a-job-to-do glare she always had just before they were released onto the Quidditch pitch. He hadn't realized how much he missed that part of her until that moment.

It was the same face of solemn determination she wore when she hugged them both that night in the room of requirement. The old group- Fred, George, Angelina, Alicia, Katie, and Lee, reunited in Hogwarts once more, but for a very different purpose than in their school days. The six of them stopped in the chaos amongst the onslaught of fleeing students, frozen as they looked into their childhood friends' eyes for possibly the last time. It had been Angelina who first threw her arms around Lee's neck, and then Katie's, and then George's and then Fred's and finally Alicia's. Tears welled in Katie and Alicia's eyes as they looked at their best friends, not knowing if they would ever see them again, but not Angelina's. She had a mission, she had a focus and a purpose, and part of that mission was to let her friends know that she loved them one last time. George remembered how she went back for one last hug, pulling both he and his brother together, an arm wrapped tight around each of their necks. She pulled so tightly and held on with such intensity that the twins were left utterly speechless. George remembered how her hair smelled like the bakery and how he looked over at his brother over her shoulder. Their eyes met, for the very last time, and Fred gave him a small nod as they both held onto her.

George snapped out of the memory and focused on her now. He wanted to be there for her now, for her fight.

"Ready?" she asked, more to herself than to him. He nodded and followed her up the spiral staircase into her battle.

"Hi Dad."

A face turned slowly at her. Mr. Johnson's eyes wavered at his daughter, and his aged face broke into a grin, revealing rotted and missing teeth. His gray eyes struggled to focus on her face as he held two emancipated withered arms out to her like a child asking to be picked up.

Angelina's face broke, the softness and caring eyes returned. She pushed past George and ran to her father, gingerly wrapping him in a loving embrace. As she held onto his frail body she could smell the familiar scent of St. Mungo's lingering on him. She pulled back and knelt in front of him, holding his thin hand. He was seated in a wheelchair with a knitted blanket over his lap, clothed in a dressing gown with food dribbled down his front.

"Angie," he whispered, eyes struggling to focus, his head rocking forward and backwards slightly. She squeezed his hand, her eyes threatening to tear, her voice cracking.

"Yeah Dad, it's me."

"Surprised he recognized you after all this time," came a nasty, biting voice from the kitchen. Mrs. Johnson had been lurking behind hanging pots and pans in the small kitchen, watching.

Angelina closed her eyes in frustration, clearly holding back her anger.

"What's this?" she asked, pointing to a small television her father was stationed in front of, which mutely played a football match.

"It's a television, it plays pictures."

"I know what it is. Why is it here?" she asked slowly and deliberately, shaking with trying to hold back her contempt.

"Well you wouldn't know I suppose, having been gone so long…"

"Mum…" she warned, eyes closing again.

"He wanted to watch football like he did when he was a kid. He wants to do a lot of things he did as a kid again," she finished, less attitude in her voice.

Angelina looked back at her father, whose eyes were attempting to focus back on the television again.

"Who's winning, Dad?"

"Manchester!" he exclaimed, smiling like a child who had been given a balloon, rocking even harder with the happy news.

She smiled sadly. "That's good, that's good," she replied absentmindedly.

"Listen, Dad," she squeezed her hand and tried to make eye contact, "I'm going to be visiting a lot more now, okay?"

"But you have to go back to Hogwarts."

"I graduated, remember?" she reminded him gently.

He frowned and looked side to side, confused.

"You were there, Dad. You don't remember but you were there. It was beautiful out, the ceremony was out in the Quidditch pitch, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. Dumbledore called my name and I walked up to shake his hand, and you clapped and hollered, you were so proud. And I was so embarrassed. And you got to see Harold again, your old friend from school, remember? And you two went up to see the Ravenclaw tower again, but you couldn't figure out the riddle, you'd had so much champagne," she smiled, shaking his hand, "and a first year had to answer it for you and mum and I laughed at you about it all night."

Tears welled in the corners of his eyes as he tried to look at his daughter.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, rocking harder in his seat.

"No, Dad, it's okay. You don't remember because of how brave you were and how strong you were. And that's nothing to be sorry about. I should be sorry because I haven't been here to help you remember."

"I think that's enough for now." The surprisingly softer voice of Mrs. Johnson made them all jump. "It's time for him to rest, you can wait in your room; we'll talk about that promise later."

Angelina stood up, wiping her eyes on her sleeves and nodded. She turned to see George, who was standing at the top of the stairs watching the scene. Embarrassment ran though her and she turned her head and dried her eyes. She had completely forgotten he was there. Why had she made him come up? What a stupid, stupid thing to put him through. She composed herself as her father was wheeled away into her parent's bedroom and she turned to face George. He started towards her, unsure of what to do.

"Come up to my room with me?" she asked sheepishly.

"Yeah, yeah of course," he offered.

"Okay," she swallowed her lingering emotions and focused on George now. She'd never brought a friend to her home, not even Alicia. She never imagined it would be one of the twins she'd have to explain her family to. She was always so open about everything in her younger years; she always… or at least had always tried to be an open and honest person. She always let the entire room knew exactly what she was thinking. She didn't like people like her mother, who acted one way around paying customers and another around everyone else. She always wanted to be more honest than she ever was. Even though she hadn't been the person she wanted to be these past three years, she had never, in all her life opened up about her family. She never let anyone into her home life that wasn't already there, like her parents or Tashina. Home was the one thing that kept her closed off from anyone else she ever met. It was her one barrier of privacy, her one line she did not cross with herself by talking about it. It always kept her from truly opening up and letting someone fully into her life.

But now, as an old friend stood in her living room she felt like spilling her guts about the one thing she never had.

She found herself bursting to tell someone about how she had spent the first twenty years of her life. She wanted to explain the anger, her crushing loneliness in a city full of people. She wanted to release everything she'd held inside for twenty three years about the very place she stood in.

She showed George how to get into the space her parent's called her bedroom, which was not a particularly easy task for their adult bodies. It required climbing onto the kitchen counter, on a section worn nearly through by the bare feet of a child climbing to and from her room every night, then up magically reinforced bookshelf and through a small hole in a cobwebbed ceiling up into a small storage loft that hung over the kitchen. Angelina paused for a moment, taking in her childhood bedroom.

It was the same mixture of deep purples, reds, and pinks that the tea shop and the flat were, with white fairy lights strung magically around the tiny area and around the small four poster bed that took up nearly the entire space. The ceiling was much lower than it had been when she was a child; George's hair brushed it as he looked around. Everything had been left exactly as it was when she left. Dresser and cabinet drawers lay open, exploding with unwanted clothing she had left out while in a hurry to pack. The tiny round window where the owl bringing the news that she had made the team still stood open and a warm breeze blew through the small room. The desk still stood with its cover up, on top an open and now dried bottle of ink with an old quill still stuck in it. Small hammocks filled with lonely cobwebbed teddy bears hung from both corners of the room. There were no walls on the sides facing the flat, only a collection of ornate, sun faded tapestries she had collected from antique shops during her long walks through Diagon Alley.

She ran her hand along the footboard of her bed, making a thin line in the thick layers of dust that had settled on top of it. She sat down gingerly on her unmade bed inside her own personal time capsule.

George pulled out her desk chair and sat down across from her.

"Your mum seems like a really lovely woman."

She giggled bitterly. Leave it to George to make her laugh in the most unfunny of times.

"She wasn't always so bad. She grew up knowing that you needed to work hard and smart in order to provide a better life for yourself and your children, she just forgot about that bit once she started working so hard."

She continued, "You know they kept me back from Hogwarts for a year? I could hear them arguing, sitting right here, through those sheets. I had gotten my letter, but Mum didn't think I'd make it into to Ravenclaw. But I knew it was just a really bad year at the shop, they nearly had to let Tashina go and I was their only other worker. But it always was a huge disappointment to them, though Dad never showed it, that their only daughter didn't follow them into Ravenclaw."

"What happened to your dad?" he asked, wishing he had the same sixth sense that Bronwyn had that gave her the innate ability to know exactly when and what to ask a person when they were ready to talk about it.

"Azkaban. He was always such a sweet guy, too kind for his own good, especially when it came to Mum. He spent eleven months in there for being convicted as a 'magic thief'- a muggleborn. And the dementors took just about every happy memory he'd ever had; they took everything but his soul. And the deatheaters tortured him until he couldn't separate the good from the bad, or the real from the imaginary, or one minute from the next. They brought him to the brink of destruction, and then left him to fend with just what he needed to survive, but not live. Sometimes I think it would've been better for him, easier for him if they had just finished the job."

"There are always worse things than death for a family and a person to endure."

Angelina looked up, started at his surprisingly wise statement. After she had spoken she felt slightly guilty and ashamed at her insensitiveness; she had expected a retort telling her she should be happy she still had him at all. George had been surprising her a lot lately; he wasn't nearly as predictable as he used to be in their school years. She found that she rather liked being surprised by him.

"I know, I know I should have been there for him. And I will be… he deserves that. I just… I needed to leave before I did something stupid. When that letter…"

"Hey, stop stop stop," George held up his hands and spoke kindly to her, "You don't have to justify anything to me, you've been doing that enough in your own head. We all did what we needed to do. And leaving was what you needed, you said so yourself, and there's nothing wrong with that."

She found herself appreciating his company more and more. His presence made her realize how desperately lonely she had been in Scotland, despite living with two people and having six teammates. It was strange having someone to talk to again- someone to really talk to. Stranger still was that the first person she could really talk to since Alicia had died was George Weasley.

George and Fred were always comfortable, always easy to talk to, although they couldn't really be trusted not to make light of heavy conversation. Or at least they didn't seem like they could be trusted. And Katie- Katie was the biggest blabbermouth she'd ever met. Alicia was who she confided with. Alicia was the sister she had been looking for her entire childhood. They were inseparable from the moment they sat down together at the Gryffindor table after the sorting to the moment she drew her last breath in Angelina's arms. But even Alicia barely knew anything about her parents or her home. Now it was just George she was opening a sealed door in her mind to.

She looked up into his dark eyes. They were old eyes now; they did not dance or glimmer in the light anymore. They were lined with years of worry, and right now they were worrying about her. The sun streaming in through the tiny window highlighted him and made the thin strands of white running through his long hair shimmer. As she looked at him, the boy with long orange hair highlighted with white, dull dark eyes with no shimmering mockery, and the a rough beard of a man who scarcely resembled her childhood friend, but bore some of his humor and kindness as well as a new reserve and wisdom, she realized she loved him. She had always loved him, of course, but all these years later she knew that she truly loved him as George, singular, the man who cried with her and made her so comfortable that he unlocked a secret vault in her. He deserved so much more than her, however. He deserved to know the truth that she knew she would need to tell him eventually. She needed to tell him something that would destroy him.

"I'm so tired, George. I'm just… I live with so much and it's destroying me…"

"What happened to your dad isn't your fault."

"It's not just that. You should know, you need to know that I'm sorry…" she shook her head, unable to look at him again. But before she could continue a head popped up through the tiny entrance hole. Mrs. Johnson's head swiveled, looking at both of them.

"Well Angelina, you've upset your father greatly."

"You know we're supposed to fill him in on things he doesn't remember, it's the only way…" she snapped, anger surging back in her.

"I am _aware_," Mrs. Johnson interrupted sharply, speaking with a teacher like formality and starkness that reminded George of Professor McGonagall reprimanding him, "of St. Mungo's suggestions. As you have clearly shown by your decision to leave home in the dead of night without a word, you are an adult capable of making your own decisions. Therefore, if you would like to continue to visit your father, if your promises this time are not as empty as they normally are, than you may continue to see him on Sundays at a scheduled time so I can supervise. So if your plan was to move back in and begin living off me and the business again…"

It was as though she had lit a match and thrown it into the fuel. Angelina exploded. There was pure hatred in her eyes as they narrowed into the same hard, deadly glare that her mother seemed to permanently wear on her face. The contempt and resentment in her voice was spitting, her biting words venomous.

"Live off of _you_? _Live off of you_? Where's my money, Ma? Where is it? _Fifteen _damn years and I haven't seen a knut of it!"

"We gave you pocket money. We gave you shelter, food…"

"You gave me a galleon a week, which is what I should have been earning an _hour_ like every other employee. When I sat up here every night alone while Dad was in prison I had a lot of time to think about how I had forgiven you for the endless excuses and delays and avoidance. There was never any money for when I graduated. You _never _saved my wages. You _never _planned on giving me the over 10,000 galleons you owed me. You lied to me for twenty years before I even left. And I forgave you for it! I forgave you from the moment I figured it out when I was thirteen. So don't _pretend _that leaving was worse than what you've done."

"Don't pretend it justifies it either."

"Justify? You're right, it doesn't justify leaving Dad. But if you took a moment to realize that there are other people in this world, other people that mattered to me other than you, you would realize that I didn't leave because of you or Dad, or the money. I knew you had nothing for me for years. I might not have been smart enough for Ravenclaw, but I wasn't dumb enough not to realize that all I ever was to you was a free employee."

"That isn't true."

"You're right. I'm also what got you that ring on your finger and Grandma's bloody tea shop. I made it on my own, without you and without my money. You may think you've worked hard for everything you have, but you haven't. You're a liar and a thief and you haven't earned one knut honestly in your life, no matter how you view yourself in the mirror, and Daddy always deserved so much better than you."

Angelina stood up. Twenty three years of resentment that she didn't even know she had was threatening to explode out of her. She needed to leave before she said even more that she regretted. Once again she found herself standing in the same room where she stood with the same anger, guilt, and racing thoughts she had nearly three years ago. And once again she needed to leave. She did not belong there; she did not belong with her mother. But this time was different than it had been three years ago. She had gotten a chance to say what she never had the courage to before, and this time she was not alone. She had George, at least for the time being. And in this moment, she was so thankful for him. She grabbed his hand and together they disapperated form the room to the bustling cobbled alleyway.

"God, I feel like flying," she gasped as they materialized on the crowded street, letting go of his hand and brushing the dust from her room off her robes.

"I haven't flown since a few days before Bill's wedding," George admitted absently, staring blankly ahead of him as he made the realization.

"I don't even own a broom anymore," he admitted sadly, "I donated it to Hogwarts ages ago. It was a rubbish broom anyway. But I really miss it sometimes, flying."

Angelina looked up at him and reached up to brush a lock of orange hair form his face; the touch brought him back down to Earth from the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch he was zooming around in in his mind.

"Why don't you come with me to Madam Quiggly's? My firebolt should be finished today, and we can pick you up the broom you always deserved."

And so they set off together down the road, together, both thankful for the company, Angelina thankful for the last few hours she would surely have with him.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

**Hey, you're still here! Thanks for reading. I guess I should do that disclaimer thing, since in this chapter I use a few lines from the Deathly Hallows. I do not own anything, I do not own any characters or lines, they belong to JK Rowling. Only the original stuff is mine. Anyway, this is my first fanfiction and I've been working really hard on it, so reviews are really appreciated. Ok, buckle up, because it's about to get interesting.**

George ended up picking out the special edition firebolt on display in the shop. It was a beautiful broom with dark, carved mahogany striping the sides like racing stripes on a sports car and a pristine, sculpture like threaded tail. A gold embossed emblem on the neck read "Firebolt Millennium." It was one of the rarest and most beautiful brooms in the world. As Madam Quiggly pulled the masterpiece down in front of the eager and greedy eyes of young students admiring it during their school shopping George felt a real excitement that he had not felt in years. He had forgotten that he could afford things like that broom now. He hadn't spoiled himself since the 60 galleon dragon skin jackets he and his brother had bought themselves for their birthday after they turned their first profit. But now he had this broom. A broom like no other, a broom that he could soar around the world in if he wanted to. Desperate to use it, he and Angelina apparated together to the one place where they knew they could be alone.

They stood together on the beach, facing the ocean, mounted ready on their brooms. George, bursting with excitement stroked the beautiful broom's neck in anticipation. After casting a few muggle repelling charms around the area they were ready to fly. George looked over at his flying partner and shot her a glowing smile with a mischievous wink and took off in a burst of incomprehensible speed.

He shot out straight over the water, speeding off into the distance, mist whipping in his face, wind rushing through his long hair. He was flying. Exhilaration and joy he had forgotten he could feel rushed through him, adrenaline fueled his body as he flew along at a speed he had never experienced before. The deep blue ocean was nothing but a sparkling floor below him and the sky was his playground. Gingerly he lifted his hands from the neck of the broom, digging his heels deeper into the foot stirrups. He felt his balance, reassured by the steadiness of the magnificent peace of magic that made him feel like he was flying through space and time on his own accord. He lifted his hands further, gripping the broom tightly between his legs. He spread his arms like wings and brought his back up to face the world, still traveling at what felt like the speed of light.

"WOOOHOOO!" he screamed until his voice grew hoarse and cracked. He screamed with pure happiness, freedom and pure unbridled childish joy.

"WOOHOO!" The world felt like it was his, he felt like he could do anything, conquer anything; he was infinite and free and he was the sky and the ocean and magic and everything in between; he was happier than he had been in years.

Angelina shot off after him, trailing him on her own firebolt. She watched as he raised his arms and screamed at the world with joy. She smiled at his happiness, grateful that she could bring him some joy in his life. She felt a rush of affection for him and admiration for his love of flying.

She leaned forward on her broom, speeding to catch up with him. She sped up to his side and looked over at him. Distracted by her he stumbled on his broom, collapsing back down to his broomstick, clutching the neck with both hands for stability. He flashed her a toothy, genuine smile as they flew out over the endless ocean together, side by side. She smiled back, happier for him than she was for herself.

She pulled her broom up at ninety degree angle, flying straight at the sun. He followed, twisting around her as she twisted around him in the air in a double helix, speeding through the heavens with her until they could barely breathe in the high altitude. She arched back down to Earth, speeding towards the sparkling ocean and he dipped down to follow her. She pulled up just before she crashed into the water, splashing him with a flick of her broomstick's tail as he touched down next to her with impressive ease for someone on an unfamiliar broom. They hovered just over the surface of the rippling water, nothing visible around them except expanse of ocean and each other. They panted, trying to catch their breath, smiling at each other in the sunlight.

George pushed back his soaked, windswept hair, shaking water from his orange mane. He looked at Angelina hovering before him. Her dark skin was flecked with water that reflected and shimmered in the sunlight. Her long thick braids spiraled around her and rested on her panting chest. She smiled at him with soft, light eyes and glimmering white teeth, a smile that nearly made him melt.

He was so thankful for her. So happy and so thankful that she was there. She brought back to him everything he was missing, everything he was depriving himself of. He had never admired someone so much. He couldn't stand the thought of her leaving again; he couldn't stand not being closer to her in this moment.

He leaned forward slightly, hovering closer to her until their brooms hung side by side, their knees brushing up against each other. He lifted a hand to her warm cheek, slipping it under her hair and gently placing it behind her neck, and he kissed her. He kissed her like he had never kissed anyone before. Lightly, lovingly, like they had all the time in the world and there was no one he'd rather be with. He felt her hands touch him with surprise; he felt her tiny moment of hesitation before she kissed him back. She dipped her broom closer, feeling his neck and back with the same soft intensity she kissed him with.

Angelina let herself melt into him. She let herself feel him and enjoy the gentle scratch of his beard and his soft lips. She let herself touch him, enjoying the butterflies in her stomach as she felt the warm closeness of another person that she hadn't felt in years. She forgot herself for a moment and gave into the pure pleasure that was kissing the man that she loved. She kissed him back until she remembered herself and remembered why it could never be.

She pulled back suddenly, hovering away from him, biting her own lower lip as they separated. She could still feel him, still taste him and still wanted him as she pulled away. But she shook her head, tears welling up in her sad eyes as she looked back into his confused ones.

"No," she whispered so he could barely hear her, "this isn't right," and she turned back in the direction they had come from, shooting off at full speed back to the beach.

George took off after her, lowering himself flat to his broom's handle, desperate to shorten the distance between them and catch up with her before she disappeared from his life forever. He rode her tail, yelling for her to stop, but he knew it was no use. He could barely hear himself in the rushing wind, and even if she could have heard him, he was sure she would not stop. He could see the shore approaching fast. Her wand was lying on that lonely beach, and any second she would be able to grab it and apparate away without an explanation. She was running from something again-what exactly he wasn't entirely sure, although he had a hunch, but he was determined not to let her get way again. He reached out an arm like a seeker's, frustrated at her lead and their evenly matched brooms. He could touch the straws of her tail with the tips of his fingers; he could feel her slipping away from him as the beach rushed towards them. As she began to slow for landing he made a desperate lunge for the tail of her broom, snatching a few straws in his hand, ripping them out as they were both pitched over the front of their brooms and tossed into the soft sand. They both tumbled and rolled, kicking up plumes of dry sand around them. Angelina was tossed forward, far from her wand, and George landed between her and it. He stood up first, determined to stop her until he got an explanation. He watched as she stumbled to her feet, brushing sand from her arms, tears streaming down her cheeks.

"You loved him, didn't you?" he asked harshly, not sure if he wanted to hear the answer to the question that had troubled him since she came back into his life.

"No! I mean yes, of course I loved him, but not like that, we agreed, after the ball that…"

"You just wanted to go back to being friends, I know. Then what is this? Why did you run?"

She turned away, unable to control her tears. She could remember it like it was yesterday, and she knew she'd never be able to forget it. Alicia, clutched in her arms as she knelt by her injured friend's side, pulled into an alcove where a knight's armor once stood, cowering amongst the chaos.

Alicia's robes were soaked through with blood, she gurgled and spit blood from the corners of her mouth and she shivered uncontrollably, her eyes wide and staring up desperately, panicked, at Angelina. She was in shock, and she was bleeding out. Angelina tried desperately to apply pressure to her slashed chest with one hand, while attempting healing incantations with her other, wand slipping through her blood soaked fingers.

"Ep… Episkey, Ossio Dispersimus, Reparifors, Tergeo, Episkey, Epsikey!"

Nothing she managed to stutter out through her panicked voice did anything against the cruel curse. She lowered herself against Alicia's body, trying to her wounds pressurized and her body warm as she screamed for help into the chaotic battle unfolding in front of them. She screamed and screamed for anyone to help but no one heard her over the explosions and yelling and cracking curses being shot around them.

"Avada Kedavra!" a death eater destroyed Collin Creevy directly in front of her before the boy even had a chance to pull out his wand. The cruel green eyes turned to her next. He had heard her screams. Hatred surged through her and she stunned him with a quick flick of her wand before he was able to raise his. She looked back at Alicia, peeling her own robes from her body, which were completely soaked through with warm, sticky blood. Panic overtook her. Alicia's face was a pale, ghostly white, her eyes were bloodshot and rolling around madly in her head, and her shivers had turned into violent convulsions. She was dying.

"LOOK OUT ANG!" Seamus flew by, concentrated on shooting curses over his shoulder at pursuing death eaters. She looked up to see what he was warning her about.

Spiders. Hundreds of enormous, dog-sized spiders were emerging from the piping above the wall across the corridor form her. They snapped their pinchers and set their sights on the pair hiding in the alcove. They were coming from all directions, closing in on Angelina and her dying friend. Fueled by fear and the intensity brought on by Alicia's suffering she screamed the hex that would destroy so many lives.

"REDUCTO!"

The wall burst apart, exploding into rocky shrapnel, sending dead spiders flying. She bent down to shield Alicia from it just in time to see her convulsions weaken and her eyes focus back on hers for a fraction of second until they glossed over unnaturally and the light behind them flickered and died. Her shaking stopped and her body slumped in Angelina's arms.

Then she heard the screaming. The screaming of such terrible agony it chilled her to her bones.

"No no no! No Fred, no!"

Fear stuck her. She laid Alicia down as peacefully and respectfully as she could and stood to peer through the gaping hole in the wall she had caused. Her blood ran cold and her heart beat out of her chest when she saw what she had done. Percy lie over Fred's chest, screaming in an agony worse than any pain a person could feel. Cold wind blew through another hole in the wall, nearly throwing her off her feet as she traced the blood covered chuck of rock back to the open, gushing gash in her friend's head. She backed up slowly, stumbling over the dead spiders that littered the corridor, back into the battlefield, undetected and unable to process what had happened and what she had done.

She turned on the beach. He had to know. She had to tell someone the secret that ate her alive everyday of her life.

"I killed him." It was the first time she had spoken those words aloud. It was the first time she had ever admitted what she had done to anyone but herself.

"What?" George spoke quietly, confused.

"I… I killed Fred."

"No you didn't, a death eater blasted apart that wall," he protested, not wanting to believe what he was hearing.

Hot angry tears flowed down her face and neck now as she forced herself to relive the night that ruined her life.

"No, everyone assumed it was the death eater I stunned, but it wasn't. It was me. Alicia was dying, someone had hit her with the Sectum Sempra curse. She was dying in my arms and… and there were spiders coming out of the ceiling. They were all around us, they were coming for us and I just wanted to protect her. I blasted away all the spiders, but it was too strong and the wall just blew apart. And she died anyway. She died in my arms and then I heard Percy…" she sobbed, unable to continue. She looked up; George only stared, shocked. He shook his head in disbelief, backing away from her as though she were diseased.

"It haunts me," she yelled, more at herself than at him, "it haunts me every day of my life. Every night as I lay in bed I see him and every dream I have is of him. I killed one of my best friends and there's not a second of any day that it doesn't destroy me. That's why I ran. I couldn't face you. I couldn't see your face. I couldn't look at everyone grieving for him, none of them knowing that his murderer was standing right there with them missing him as badly as they were."

She collapsed into the sand in a pathetic, sobbing heap, throwing handfuls of sand at the ground, no longer interested in running. She had no desire to fly away now, no interest in Quidditch or love or even death. She was destroyed.

George kneeled in the sand some distance from her, watching her cry into the sand. Water trickled around the hems of his robes as he held a fist to his mouth, processing what she had said. The thing that had ripped his life apart- it was because of the one person he had been hoping could put it back together.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

"It was an accident."

Neither was sure if it was a question or a statement.

"It was an accident," he repeated. George sat down on the hard, wet sand away from her, water billowing around him and wetting his robes has he processed her words.

"Doesn't change the fact that he's dead," Angelina murmured bitterly.

"You're right, it doesn't."

They sat there for a long time on the beach, in silence, separated by a distance. Angelina sat cross legged on the dry sand, combing the earth through her fingers. George hugged his knees in in silent thought. Neither could look at each other, but neither could rationalize why they did not leave.

George let out a low, unnatural chuckle that cut the through the silence like a knife.

"Sixth year, Fred and I had a competition to determine who got the first chance to ask you to the Yule Ball."

"Does it really matter now?" She asked, not wanting to hear more about the bond she had severed, the times that were gone and the lives she had destroyed.

"No… I guess it doesn't," he spoke slowly, carefully, as though trying to determine if the memories he spoke of were actually real, "Marshmallows. It was how many marshmallows we could fit into our mouth at once. I got seven; he got eight."

Angelina gulped. Bittersweet visions of the two young, short haired boys jamming marshmallows into their mouths until they gagged and drooled in some remote corner of the library flashed through her mind. She imagined Fred jumping up in victory, cheeks stuffed like a chipmunk's. Lee, probably the judge, clapping for him while George tried not to retch. Of course that was how they settled matters. Of course it was. Then, as always, came the crushing realization that she had destroyed him. Murdered him and left the other to fend alone in a world where he was never meant to. She could think of nothing more to say to the surviving twin. Nothing could make it right.

Suddenly George couldn't stand the silence or his own racing thoughts. He stood up abruptly and tossed Angelina her long, skinny wand. He pulled out his own and rolled it in his fingers as he paced in short, angry circles, muttering to himself. Anything to keep from screaming.

Angelina took the gesture as his cue for her to leave the beach that he had only a day before told her was as much hers as it was his. She gingerly took her wand and stood up, watching him pace.

"I'm sorry," she told him one last time, knowing that it would make no difference, but there was nothing more that she could say. She looked at the wand she did not deserve to own and prepared her mind to apparate. She wondered briefly where she would go this time. She found that she didn't much care.

He turned sharply at her, staring directly at her with wide, bloodshot eyes. There was a fire burning behind them. They were as red and wild as his mane and bristled chin.

"No," he demanded in a manic voice that was not his own.

"I've dreamt of this day… meeting the person who killed him…."

Dangerous insanity danced in his changing voice.

"We would duel."

"I'd kill him."

"We'd fight, and then…"

"…it might mean something."

"So we'll duel."

He spoke as though he were two people in one body. He wavered between angry, rambling voices, finishing his own sentences as though they were not originally his own. He was terrifying her.

"George…" she pleaded warily, watching his roll his wand.

"I'd defeat the wand that killed him."

"So duel." He pointed his wand at her chest, walking closer to her. For the fear that racked in her heart, she did not move a muscle.

"I'm not going to fight you."

"GODDAMMIT, FIGHT BACK. I COULD KILL YOU, I COULD. I COULD FUCKING KILL YOU SO FIGHT BACK!" he screamed, spitting madly, exploding in angry, confused tears and wagging a trembling wand at her, stalking closer to her unflinching body.

A slow jet of green light flickered from the end of his wand, but Angelina flicked her wand at the sight of it and sent it exploding into the sand with a silent shield charm.

"You don't want to hurt me."

"EXPELLIARMUS!" he yelled, sending her wand flying back behind her. Again she did not flinch, nor did she make a move to retrieve it. She stood still in his wrath of anger.

He stomped closer to her, until his wand pressed into her chest and he loomed over her, tears welling in his wide, manic eyes as he stared into her determinedly unafraid eyes.

"You're right! I don't!" he yelled, digging the tip of his wand deep into her skin, voice cracking, "because it was never supposed to be you!"

She could feel the heat of his anger emanating from his wand, burning her skin.

"Why won't you fight back?" he asked, frustrated, jabbing her again with his wand. She couldn't help but to wince at the increasing heat he burned her with. She lifted a hand to his wand arm, grabbing it by the wrist and pushing it down. He gave little resistance as she pushed his threatening arm back, flinging the wand into the sand below him. She looked up at him with her giant light brown eyes, silent, still holding back the arm that threatened to hurt her. He softened for a moment, looking into her eyes. She was Ang. And that just made everything worse.

And the anger came back.

Suddenly, lightning fast, he wretched his arm from her grasp, giving her only the time to gasp in surprise as he grabbed both of her wrists, yanking them up and holding them tight above her head, as though she were surrendering to what she had done. He held on with a strength that was not his own. He shook his head in disbelief.

"I think I always loved you," he told her, shaking with rage.

"Why did it have to be you?" he asked, this voice quiet and hurt.

"I don't know," she answered softly. She felt him tighten his grip on her wrists; he was starting to hurt her.

She gave resistance to his hold and pushed his arms back. He always gave in a little when it came to her, even as he shook with rage and insane vengeance. He stumbled back, surprised at himself, panting with anger.

He loved her. What was she supposed to do with that, now? How was anything supposed to be fixed between them? She couldn't fill the hole she had already blasted away in his heart. Before now he had made her feel almost okay. He had shown her what it was like not to be so alone, to know someone was there, someone she could touch and feel and love. Now she knew what it would be like to have someone love her again… someone who wanted her, really wanted her. But because of what had happened and the irreversible thing she had done in a split second of fear he would never feel that way about her again.

He started to come closer, but she pushed his chest back with all her strength, a cry of despair escaping her lips. She didn't want him near her. What was done was done and there was nothing more to be said or done. He rushed forward again and in a kick of anger she pushed him back again until he stumbled and landed in the sand. She could still feel his chest on her hands. The warmth of another, so foreign to her during her years of exile. The warmth of someone she loved, so agonizingly painful that she just wanted him to stop. She didn't want him near her, it hurt too much, each touch was too final. She knew it was time to go, time to leave the one place she had found a partner to face the stark reality of her lonely life. It was time to go live… to get through the solitary life she had set out for herself since that night, but she could not rip herself away from the beach.

And neither could George. He staggered to his feet again. He was so angry, he wanted to blow apart the beach, and he wanted to hurt her for what she had done. She killed him, and then she came back to rip him apart with her confession. She was a poison.

But he didn't want to hurt her, and that confused him more than anything. He started towards her again.

"Stay away from me!" she yelled, tears stinging her eyes.

He was ready for her this time. She tried to push him again but he grabbed her arms and held them down to her sides. She wriggled and half heartily fought him.

"Stop it, stop it! Get off of me!" she protested, writhing in his grasp. To her surprise he let go of one of her twisting arms and grabbed her around her waist. He held on tight, pulling her against him, even as she pushed back at his shoulder with her free hand.

He let go of her other arm and wrapped another arm around her, hugging her as tightly as he could, refusing to let go.

"Would you just stop George, I…" she arched her back away from him, turning away. She couldn't stand it. He was hugging her tight as they staggered together, his long body enveloping her. It hurt too much. She was closer to another person than she had been in years. The familiar comfort, the familiar melting into another's body heat was rushing back to her as she tried to wriggle herself free of the agonizing hold she knew she did not deserve. She wretched her upper body away and put her hands on his chest to push him away again, but she couldn't. She couldn't help herself. She had spent too much time trying to convince herself that being alone was okay, that she could survive that way. He was like a drug now, touching her. Reminding her of what she had lived without for so long, tempting her with the companionship she told herself every night that she did not miss. She couldn't stand it any it any longer. The hands that rose to his chest to push him away instead grabbed his robes and pulled him towards her. He fell into her as she kissed him. She kissed him harder than she had ever kissed anyone, desperate in her need for him. She was angry at him for making her realize what she was missing, what she wanted and she was furious at him for making her act on it. She bit his lip and pulled him in closer, she needed him. He kissed her back furiously; no loving, tender softness in his lips, his chin scratched at her mercilessly, and his hands gripped her waist with all their strength.

They staggered together, desperately pressing into each other as they tried to get closer, as they tried to fulfill their desire. They stumbled back as Angelina tripped on the soft sand, George following her to the ground as she fell. They kissed angrily and fully as though they were running out of time together and needed each other desperately. George landed on top of her, his heavy body giving her no mercy. She enjoyed the feel of him on her; she had forgotten how good it felt to be under another person, to be totally at their mercy. She grabbed at his robes, pulling him in closer, desperate to feel more of his weight on her. He took her hands by the wrists and yanked them up over her with a grunt, holding them down above her head, not allowing her the pleasure of touching him back as he moved his scruffy chin down to her neck, kissing and biting it with the same angered intensity he touched her with, his body pushing her, keeping her down in the sand below him. All she could do was gasp and writhe with pleasure and pain and frustration at her bound hands. Now he was keeping her from fulfilling her need. He was punishing her.

He bit her neck again, hard, as he worked his way down, his chin scratching the raw areas as he worked. Suddenly he stopped. She felt his iron grip loosen on her wrists and his chin leave her skin. His hands slid softly down her wrists as he sat up. She clenched her fingers in her new freedom and looked up to see what had made him stop. He brushed a finger softly against her chest, making her wince and gasp in pain.

"Did I do that?" he asked softly, the anger gone from his voice. He sat over her, still on her, looking lost as he stared at the spot he had just touched. She sat up to see what he was looking at. She pulled the shirt she was wearing under her robes down to reveal a small, round, sickle sized deep burn in her skin, dark red and blistering. She touched the skin around it, wincing at the shooting pain that made it feel like she was being branded all over again.

"Yeah, I guess so."

"I didn't mean to," he looked lost and confused. He followed the line of angry red love bites up her neck to her face, rubbed raw by his rough beard, then his eyes wandered down to her wrists, the outlines of his fingers still visible on them, small cuts by his digging fingernails beginning to bleed. He shuffled back off of her, shaking his head guiltily.

"I get angry sometimes. I'm sorry, I just…"

"It's fine," she interrupted shortly, sitting up to face him. She was more ashamed at herself for giving in to her desire. She had started it, she had let him. She had enjoyed every second of his anger and she had unleashed her own frustration, her own bitterness back at him. And he was not without injury either.

She reached up instinctively and lightly touched the screaming red claw marks she had raked across his deathly pale skin. His robes were hanging off of him and his t-shirt was wet with sweat and bunched together where she had clenched it in her fists, pulling him closer to her. His long hair was bent and wild, sticking up madly where she hand pulled at it.

"I'm sorry, for everything," she told him honestly, holding his disheveled chin in her hand. Sorry for all the pain she had caused him, and sorry for what she was about to do next.

She leaned forward and lightly brushed his lips with hers, kissing him so softly they could barely feel each other, but strong enough so that they both knew they were really there.

As she pulled away he looked up at her.

"I think… I think I'm okay. Really okay."

"You are?" she asked, confused.

"When you realize how much love you still have to give, despite what was taken away, that means you're okay."

And he leaned forward and kissed her again, taking her neck in his hands, softly, lovingly, as though he was apologizing for what had happened, and she returned his gesture, accepting, and offering her own.


End file.
